A Deep Breath (#22)

I made these (with a little help from my daughter).
Now I need to fill them.

On the first anniversary of this blog, I reached one hundred posts. Two years and a month  since that milestone, and I  am still shy of two hundred. After tonight, it will be seven posts short. This recent stretch of blogging has been a struggle. Too many insightful topics passed over.  Too many Sundays skipped. 

It would be easy to blame it all on a busy schedule. However, I accomplished more creatively when I was teaching full time and driving my young children to and from daycare. Both jobs required constant problem solving and improvisation. And during the first year of the pandemic, when I began this blog, my days were filled volunteering at the studio. I was on call, answering to the whims of a struggling dance studio director. In fact my worst, most demanding Nutcracker experience occurred that year. Despite the stress, I still produced regular blog posts. The demands of my current life are nothing like those of my past.

During those years, I was creating, but not for myself, and never to completion. While teaching, projects would draw initial excitement, like lighting a match--a brilliant illuminating display. Then it would move along and eventually smolder, until it became a fleeting trail of smoke. There were only so many days to achieve anything. And distractions would arise. The demands of students, parents, and headmasters became obstacles to work around. Or just throw your hands up and surrender. My teaching career began with full box of matches, some times it would light a great fire. But the years turned over on themselves, and the supply of matches dwindled. Then it became like starting a fire in the rain. By the end of my career, it was pouring, and the wind was blowing. Each day became another challenge. And the next day a reminder that nothing was solved the day before.

Then the fire went out. 

The dance studio became a second chance. Between stage managing the Nutcracker performances and annual recitals, and building props, I had returned to a period of creativity and problem solving. But when you answer to a perfectionist who does not listen to criticisms and critiques, and you watch your work constantly questioned and redesigned, no matter how well you started that fire, the elements will smother it, and put it out. My last Nutcracker experience happened during the first year of this blog. And I said not to the recital that followed. I said no to all of it. Finally, last summer, I yelled "no", over and over, on the phone.

I needed to say it, and he needed to hear it. 

Yet, it would be wrong of me not to take a moment to recognize the good, the beautiful, and the extraordinary that occurred throughout those careers. With regards to teaching, I  miss my co-workers. Our conversations were full of comedy and wit, wisdom and intelligence. Whether sitting around the teacher's table at lunch, or standing about the picnic tables at recess, I never tired of talking with them. As for stage managing, between the dance teachers and the other parent volunteers, my days were filled with insights and jokes, inspirations and lively chitchat. Together, we cheered on the dancers, and complained about everything else. Then came in the next day to do it all over again. I had made friends, again. 

Finally, through both roles, the teacher and the stage manager, I met so many young people. Oh, how they loved to try my patience, test my will, and accelerate my hearing loss with their constant yammering all at once. But I would endure it all in a heartbeat--though I would not do it all the same way--just to see them stand before the class and deliver a poem they had written, or watch them take the stage in costume and dance before a full house. 

To this day, these people have remained deep in my thoughts.

So, where does this all leave me? What is the point of blogging for three years, or even the purpose of tonight's post? Is all this nostalgia good for me? It is a puzzle that I need to solve, but I have no light, so I need to start a fire. However, I cannot recall how to ignite the kindling in front of me. Or maybe I do not want to remember? Solving the puzzle would help me. Yet, I am unable to see the pieces, or the photo on the box. 

(Sorry for mixing up these two metaphors. This is what happens when you binge watch two seasons of Only Murders in the Building, finish Life Below Zero: Next Generation, and start a season of Alone. Yes, in my mind, all three are connected and inspired that last paragraph.)

Hey, at least my raised beds are built, and the laundry is all done.

Oh, and I finished my one-hundred-and-ninety-third blog post before dinner.