Today is the first day of the rest of my life. Really, I suppose every day is the first day of the rest of my life. Every day provides opportunity, tragedy, confusion. Every day allows me to determine who I am and where I am going, but some days become tipping points in life. Graduation. Marriage. Childbirth. Death. Sabbatical? For the last twenty years, I got up each morning and went to work. I love my job. I am energized by it and feel that it is meaningful.

But on Monday, I don’t have to go to work. No. I am not allowed to go to work. This is a very peculiar situation. I have worked tirelessly for twenty years and now. No. You are not allowed on campus. You will work from home. For one semester, I am on sabbatical. I have my project. I have my work to do, but I am not allowed on campus. I am cut off from my life of twenty years. I am having a hard time dealing with this tipping point. My heart is excited about the project I have ahead of me, but also sad about the loss of camaraderie with peers and insights from students.
For the next semester, I am a shadow. I will do work that nobody sees. I will shape my life in ways that only I will know. I will learn things that nobody hears. I am not sure how I will flourish in this shadow world. There are more questions than answers. On top of that, my boss told me that I need to leave my office. There is no replacement office at this time, just more shadows. So, not only am I leaving for a semester, but I need to leave no trace of myself.

 
Yesterday, I started cleaning out my office for real. I had been poking around for a couple of weeks. I moved several books to the storage room that will be their home for four months or longer. I took home my orchid which sat on top of my cabinet collecting dust and rarely being watered. But yesterday, I got serious. I cleaned out my drawers full of pens, erasers, coins and nametags. I took the papers that had littered my desk and piled them in the corner so that the new inhabitant of my office could work without being impacted by any aura that I left. They wouldn’t know that the previous tenant was a hoarder, a procrastinator. I do have some time ahead when I can sneak into the office that is no longer mine to remove my identity. To remove my things. To become a shadow.

 
I also feel that politically I have become a shadow. The new president and political views that are broadcast over the media are not my views. Mine are the shadows that can be seen but are not deemed valid. For at least two years, the political climate is set until there are more elections. Unlike my sabbatical, I have no plan, no project to get through this period. I am searching for something that would make an impact. The tipping point for the country is aligned with my tipping point. Hopefully, for myself, I can carve a future that is bright and rewarding. But politically, what do I do? Currently, I delete offensive Facebook posts. I try to limit my exposure to the fabrications and marketing of right wing politicians who want to send my students back to poverty and violence. They want to build walls and create fear. I try to make sense of fact and fiction. Do I make up my own lies? Do I exaggerate my own view of the world and broadcast that? Do I tell my friends that they are with me or against me? That there is no middle ground. Actually, that is just not my style and honestly, I don’t think it is useful. Hate speech is hate speech whether from them or from me. But what do I do. I guess that is the million dollar question.

 
In four months, my career direction will be set based on new findings and new technology. Along the way, I will travel and study; create and write. I am looking to have more freedom in teaching online. It will also give students more freedom and open up a space for me to continue to grow and learn. In four months, I will return from the shadows and become part of the world of light and dark. Hopefully, the country will also rise from the shadows and find its way again.

All my life, I have been very active. At school, this brought me all kinds of problems. I was that kid standing in the corner.  My report card repeatedly included phrases like “Talks too much,” “Can’t sit still” and “Doesn’t live up to potential.” This was bad. My mother nagged, but nothing helped. My doctor told my mom to find classes. “She needs to keep busy. She needs to expend the energy.” So I learned to swim at 3 years old and soon after that joined a swim club. I started dance lessons at 4, basketball at 7. But still the report cards came in with “Can’t sit still.”
Fast forward to me at 60: I sit in the office meeting with students. I stand in the classroom lecturing. At night, I crash on the couch. On top of that, I am an empty nester. Suddenly there is no laundry to do. No cleaning. No little league. No ballet. Just TV. Just work. No more hyper. No more svelte body.

But I am still surprised that suddenly the scale in the bathroom is rising. My reflection in the mirror is growing like a fun house illusion. Not exponentially. Slowly. Like a frog in a frying pan basking in the sauna. Slowly like a killer snail ready to take down my spinach. This is my fate.

Regardless, I am a problem solver who takes care of things. I know the solution. Listen to that doctor from my childhood. “Find classes. She needs to keep busy. She needs to expend the energy.” As a diligent patient, I joined a gym: Friday on the bicycle, Saturday on the Elliptical, Sunday in the pool. My miserly ways help. That gym is sucking money out of my bank account every month so I had better get my money’s worth. Every weekend, I ride that bike and get nowhere. I work that elliptical and the weight still creeps up. I forgot about the pool last year and spend time on the bicycle again on Sunday. I joined Tai Chi and attend Mondays and Wednesday. My doctor would be proud of me. But the creep never stops.

Why do I care? Why does weight matter? I am old (or at least older). I have earned to right to grow up or out or whatever way my body thinks fit to do. Haven’t I?

Why Write?

All my life I have loved to learn. I love to find out about things, all manner of things. If someone has a question, I am the first to run to Google to find the answer. I am an Explorer. At the same time, words do not come easily to me. Throughout school, I would avoid words. When we had to read a book and document our reading diligence, I read fables and fairy stories. Those were the shortest books I could find. If a composition was to be at least 100 words, I would write exactly 100 words. But without reading and vocabulary development, my writing always earned less than stellar grades. My writing brought insults from teachers and punishment from my parents. I just didn’t have the tools to put my thoughts onto paper. I didn’t have the words or the grammar.

So why take on an assignment to write an essay a week for a year. Why torture myself with finding the right words? Why? Why not continue in my relatively happy nonverbal life?

There are stories to be told. The older I get, the more I realize that books don’t always get it right. Where is my story? Where are my student’s stories? Where are my children’s stories? Now is the time for me to begin writing, to tackle the beast. I have so many stories that need to be told, that want to be told. I should at least try to capture some of them before it is too late.

I expect this will be a challenging, bumpy road. Many of the essays may not convey the right sentiment, use the right words, find the pocket. But hopefully, after a year of writing, I can find some diamonds in the rough. The reflection on my life, my heritage, and my legacy will guide me as I move towards the winter of my life. And maybe, just maybe, I will develop the tools that makes a good writer.