another breakthrough

It's strangely true that I'm still in recovery from teaching. It's only now, 7 years out of it, that I can bear to read or talk about it. That I can try to answer the phone, write with a pen, make a list or see a crowd of youngsters fill mid-afternoon. I still have difficulty holding onto simple detail, following basic directions, breathing in a crowd (four is max capacity.) Not-keeping-track of conversations has, at last, become a-musing to myself and friends rather than excrutiating social phobia.

It's sad comfort that I'm not unusual. Shocking how many of us there are. Jenna fell 3 years ago. She was superb, often mentioned by inspectors as excellent. She showed me how to teach with flair, how to make imagination's passion really work in classrooms. How to love it even if it all went pear-shaped. Especially when it did that.

A moment changes everything. Revelation strips you brutally, suddenly, no preamble. Here. Now. That's it. Done.

Ill with flu and stress, Jenna dropped the folder that had devoured yet another weekend. Everything spilled onto the floor, the metal teeth that held her life spat it out. Gazing at eviscerated, shiny lesson plans drowning in a hundred other pressing matters, all in triplicate, Jenna cried. Quietly. Incessantly. Her partner found her there, still kneeling on the floor, an hour later. Still gazing. Still crying. This beautiful, strong woman who is pathologically unwilling to cry. Ever. She who held my world aloft on her shoulders when it was crushing mine.

"can't do it. can't do it." Whispered incantation. Stunned, he said, "It's ok, love, I'll pick it up, I'll sort it out and even put it back in order, maybe treat you to a stronger folder …"

Almost beyond breath she keened "no.can't.do.this.any.more."

The utterly naked enormity of that moment guts passion with a butcher's grace.