Hanging my head in shame, I come back to my blog. I had such high hopes for myself and my resolve to write at least once a week. To be fair to myself, I do have a job. In fact I have two jobs, three if you count the once-a-week 3 hour gig I have on the side. All of these jobs have variable schedules, and on top of that I am searching for a summer job, and a job when I get to Portland in the Fall. I am just a little busy.
And that's a good thing.
I have re-discovered my love for teaching. It was there all along, but paired with my past experiences and therefore tinged with the scent of failure. Teaching was my last hold out; the last big boogety boogety in my closet of fear. Years ago, someone said to me, "Its like when a parent loses a child and they shut the door to that child's bedroom and seal it up like a tomb. There are rooms in your heart where a death has occurred and you've shut the door and said, 'I'll never go there again.'" I didn't understand these words at the time, but the truth in them has been revealed to me recently.
Part of my process of healing has been to revisit those places I have feared the most, the places I have experienced failure. The old me was so terrified of failure, that when I felt it coming on, I would, like a sinking ship trying to stop the inevitable, shut down the water safe doors. There was a problem with my response though. Every time I shut down the door and ran from the impending danger, I left behind something important. I left parts of myself to drown in the rising tide of fear.
But I was a little premature and panicky. There was no water that threatened to swamp the boat. Behind those too quickly deployed doors was the evidence of minor mistakes...nothing fatal. Maybe there was a pinprick sized leak in the hull. Nothing a little tar couldn't fix, nothing uncommon to the seafarer. Unfortunately my fear had clouded my judgment, and now there was a huge bulkhead door in the way and no way for me to observe the minor nature of the problem. As to opening the door to assess the situation, I was SURE that a wall of deathly water would rush over me, ending any hope of survival. Even approaching the door meant being submerged up to my neck in terror.
Those doors and those rooms only have the power over you that you give them. Each time I square off in front of another door I sealed long ago, the fear wanes a little more. I am learning that the fear that grips my heart is a liar. I open the door and discover no deathly threat. Each room rediscovered garners me the treasures I abandoned in panic; treasures I have carried as lost cargo for all these years, thinking myself a flooded ghost ship. Each room opened reacquaints me to myself.
I am becoming seaworthy.