Water

My life has been an ocean lately. Sometimes I'm swimming against this strong current. No matter how hard or fast I kick I never get further from the shore. Other times, the riptide wraps around my ankles and pulls me out to sea before I have time to realize I can't get back to the beach. This week, the two tides have been playing tug of war. One minute I feel like I'm being washed up on shore, unable to get anywhere. The next, I'm drowning somewhere in the middle of the Atlantic.

I've written quite a bit about my need to plan. I like to have blue prints for my life carefully excavated and understood. However, it seems that everytime I construct a plan I feel comfortable with, a tsunami of "what-ifs" and new develops destroy it. I can't even get my feet on the ground without getting the wind knocked out of me.

I'd like to just stop planning. Really, I would. But letting go of control is scary. Thinking that life could just happen, without my hands wrapped tightly around it, well that's petrifying.

I don't have control over my employment for next year. I don't have control over Tom finding a stable and enjoyable career. I feel like I don't even have control over where I'm going to live come June. I need something I can grasp. Something that I feel like I'm creating, controlling, molding- instead of having everything the other way around.

So, Tom and I have decided to wait till May 15 to make any moving plans. I have to wait to find out about my contract till next year. Wait to see how the next few weeks play out for Tom. It's hard to float with all this waiting on top of me. I think I could use a little advice- though I'v been known not to take others ideas too well.

Some good luck and a few breaks wouldn't be bad either.

Plans.

Plans. I spend a good portion of my life planning things out. I am most comfortable when things are stable, when I have an understanding of what's to come, when I'm in control. However, I'm beginning to realize that creating a solid plan and seeing it through don't always fall on the same page.

For the first time in my life, my job is in danger, and for nothing of my own fault. I try to go to work every day with a fresh outlook. Every time a child walks into my classroom, no matter what they did or said the previous day, they have a new page in my book. I work hard to make my lessons meaningful. I work hard to go beyond what's expected. But I, along with many other fabulous teachers, got a letter stating that our positions were up for discussion at a closed door board meeting.

My principal told me at my final evaluation (the same time as I got my rice letter) that I would be recommended for next year, however under the current circumstances she didn't know if that really meant anything. I asked her what I can expect next. A riff letter? A contract? When would these things happen? When would I know? She just shook her head and said she didn't have any idea.

But this does not fit in to my plan. Tom and I are supposed to start apartment hunting. We're supposed to move in June. We're supposed to go forward, not stay still.

A few weeks ago, I was in Atlantic City with two good friends from work. We were talking about the current climate in New Jersey schools. They were talking about their wonderful, exciting back up plans. Making invitations full time. Creating a DIY bakery. It was then I began to realize that I don't have a back up. I don't have anything else. Teaching is the end of the road for me.

It took me longer than others to discover that my calling was in education. And maybe that's why I haven't discovered what I could do if teaching doesn't work out. I just never planned on having it not work. At the same time, I don't want it to be my dead end street. I don't want teaching to be the only thing that defines me.

I was on the phone with Melinda, crying about this among other things, not too long ago. Since she is the best friend a girl could ask for, she calmed me down and made me feel a small sense of stability again. "You have your writing, Sam."

Do I? The writers group is going great but I'm still not past page 13 and I still can't stop comparing myself to everyone else (don't yell, Melinda). This blog is great too- I get out my crazy emotions, feel renewed after- but I only have a handful of readers (only 7 that I know about) so I wouldn't say it's going anywhere fast. I don't have anything concrete. I don't have anything that feels like a real plan.

And, on top of all this, I'm terrible at waiting. I get agitated, crazy, even a little mean (poor Tom). Needless to say, this maybe one of the toughest times I've ever experienced. I'm dealing with the things that make me feel the weakest- instability, self-realization, and waiting.

So the question stands, what am I supposed to do now?

Rantings

So, its Sunday night and I'm in a mood. I wouldn't categorize it as bad, but it's leaning closer that way than it is to good. I'm not sure why. Perhaps it's just the daunting prospects Sunday nights usually bring. I have to begin thinking about my week. Ironing my clothes. Planning dinners. Making lunch. Setting up coffee. Trying to get to sleep at a reasonable hour. All those minute tasks that seem to take up so much of my evening.

This Sunday marks the close of a very pleasant weekend. The weather was stunning. Bright blue skies and 70 degrees. I cleaned out my car and drove around with the roof down. There might not be a better feeling than the first convertible ride of the year. It reminds me of waking up after a very long, very boring sleep. Today was spent outside, watching Tom coach soccer. The first win of the season and a delicious lunch. Not too bad.

Kristen, one of my oldest and dearest friends, came up for dinner Saturday night with her boyfriend, Brian. Kristen is a fellow writer-actually she's a big part of my writing roots. We found our voice at the same time, sitting on the floor of Mr. Azarch's writing class, junior year of high school. We liked to think we were defying authority with our dirty stories that could have gotten us into heap loads of trouble. (I think my innocent reputation and quiet appearance was always our saving grace.) Back then, we went for the gut-spilling our teenage angst on the paper.

Kristen followed her dreams to opening her own shop in Jersey City, and like myself began to loose sight of her writing goals. Through my blog and Facebook, we decided to start a small writers group to get our writing back on track. Right now, it's just three of us: Kristen, Melinda, and myself.

I'm hoping having the ideas and inspiration of two fabulous writers and friends will push me forward. I know I need writing as much as I need books and air.

Back to my mood. Tom and I are moving sometime in June. I know this is a major part of my cranky spells. I am a planning-addict. I like to feel like I know what's coming a year in advance. We don't have any sort of plan. We have a lot of ideas, but nothing that feels stable. I know it'll come together, it's just the waiting that kills me. Just like work.

With all the talks about cuts, budgets, and riff letters, its pretty hard not to loose sleep. I'm not tenured. This is technically only my second year. I think I've been doing a pretty good job of looking calm, but really, it would be impossible not to worry a little. There's nothing I can do about it. I do the best I can every day. I try to go above my average duties. I try to make it count. But if it all comes down to money, well, that just makes me sad.

There's so much uncertainty in my life right now. I'm o.k with changes. I feel like I need them at this point, but I want to be sure I'm making all the right changes. That I'm in control of these changes. I'm hoping that the writer's group helps me-gives me a more concrete outlet for my creativity, a little purpose outside of work. I guess we'll see.

I'll keep you posted.

Writing Woes

I'm slowly beginning to over come my writing fears. I started a narrative project and, for the most part, I am enjoying the slow, arduous task of piecing my ideas into story. I do love the feeling of rereading a paragraph I constructed and thinking "wow, I wrote that". However, I don't always elicit such reaction.

Over the years, I've become acutely aware that, at times, I am my own worst enemy. I beat myself up over the smallest failures. Just last night, I was brought to the verge of guilty tears because I had scorched the rice. Often, I hold the guilt for my students failing a vocabulary test, or forgetting to hand in a composition, whether or not it was my fault. I burry myself under tasks and expectations-to be the best possible teacher, girl friend, daughter, friend I can be, and then feeling defeated and injured if I make the slightest mistake.

Writing fits in with these perimeters.

In high school and college, writing was a release. I wrote long winded poems about the winding Pennsylvania roads or cold, New Jersey beaches. I emptied out my broken hearts on the pages of my journals. I felt pure bliss as I wrote beautiful, non-sensical proses on pieces of loose leaf. My favorite nights were spent at an open mic with Melinda at The Uptown Coffee House in Kutztown.

But, like everything else, my feelings towards writing has changed since I've gotten older. Back then, it was like a whimsical love affair. Romantic, passionate, head spinning. Now, well, I'm not sure just how to describe it.

Writing is not as easy anymore. I spend a lot of time scrutinizing my words, obsessing over my unknown readers, and wondering if there's a chance in hell I could get published. It feels impossible to write just for me anymore. I find myself thinking about a market, wondering if the three pages I just wrote are worth anything, if I'm kidding myself completely.

I find that I write slowly these days. I'm working on a young adult story now, and I haven't been able to get past page 4 in a few hours. Truth be told, I've never finished any story I've ever written (except for one or two I wrote for Karen Blomain's short fiction course). When I was 18, my only goal was to publish a book. How am I supposed to do that if I can't even finish 10 pages?

Deep breath. Writing has been my passion as long as I can remember. I just have to remind myself that this isn't about anyone else. I have to remind myself that there's no use in bruising my own ego over a case of writers' block. And sometimes, you have to stop thinking about who's going to read it, and just let the words do their job.

Hours Off

My ultimate goal, right now, is to repair the pot holes and roadblocks that are dirtying up my happiness journey. I will admit that it's been a struggle. If I'm to be perfectly honest, I know that I have a hard time handling any stress. I'm overly emotional. I'm not a good fighter. And sharing my feelings usually ends up with me broken down in tears. I'm impatient. I'm stubborn. I'm a complete worrier.

On the other hand, I've never claimed to be perfect. It's so vital to know yourself, to be truthful with every little particle, hormone, and flaw that come together to make you who you are. I tend to believe, that despite these little quirks, I am a good person. Good deeds make me feel inner joy, so I try to do them often. I think of others before myself as much as I can, especially concerning the ones I love.

It might be because of these traits (both good ones and not-so-lovely ones), that I often neglect my own needs. So tonight, I reclaimed myself.

I went to dinner by myself- indulging in green tea, miso soup, seaweed salad, and a delicious caterpillar roll. I treated myself to a pedicure and manicure (which really I needed-- I'm in my roommates from college's wedding this weekend). I read my book. And thought about no-one and nothing.

Suddenly, the fog that had settled in my mind feels lifted. My shoulders a tad lighter. The knots in my back loosened.

So maybe, as I struggle to clear the road ahead, I need to remember to take a few hours off from my own brain and try to enjoy myself.

Birthdays

I turn 27 tomorrow. Birthdays have always had a strange effect over me. I think it's the very concrete notion of change- even though nothing ever really changes, at least not within the few hours from going to one year to the next. Yet, just knowing I am one year older, one year further away or closer to what-ever, leaves me feeling unsettled.

One of my favorite short stories is "Eleven" by Sandra Cisneros. In it she writes, "What they don't understand about birthdays and what they never tell you is that when

you're eleven, you're also ten, and nine, and eight, and seven, and six, and five, and four,

and three, and two, and one...

Because the way you grow old is kind of like an onion or like the rings inside a tree trunk

or like my little wooden dolls that fit one inside the other, each year inside the next one.

That's how being eleven years old is."

So here I am, on the cusp of turning 27, but all of my other years are still nestled inside of me. As a writer I always seem to go back to my sixteenth year and the time I spent in the coffee house in Belmar. Or when I was eighteen, ready to leave for college, feeling like I was already gone, and the hours thinking, staring at the ocean.

I read a poem with my class the other day. The poet said something about writing about the time in your life that was the vividest. Could that be those years I spent trying to figure out who I was and where I belonged? In memory, they always seem black and white, sepia toned and washed out. What about now?

Now. It seems sometimes between working, worrying about money, taking care of a home, trying to rush the next stages, that I loose sight of who I am. Overly emotional, overly sensitive, creative, loving... I need to paint this time, make it vivid.

Where does happiness fit in?

This is my happiness journey. The changes I fear are now the ones I want to embrace. I don't know where the next years will take me and the unknown is unsettling. But there's comfort in knowing that my sixteenth year is still inside me, like the rings inside a tree trunk, helping to shape the years to come.

Another post about moving

So I know I've been on this moving kick for a few blogs now, and I'm sure some people are thinking "Sam, stop with the moving- crap! We know you're not going anywhere!" And this might be true. However, something keeps making me browse move.com, comparing what I get in my beloved state to what I get else where.

The more I think about it, the more I begin to believe that buying a home here might be the dumbest thing we can do. I keep weighing the odds. Friends? Room? Taxes? Schools? Stable job? What are the most important things? I'll let you take a look at what I'm comparing.

For 200,000

3 bedroom, 3 bath 2,724 square feet in Noblesville, In

1 bedroom, 1 bath in Westfield, NJ

I know what my New Jersey friends are thinking: "Sam, that's Westfield!" Of course, Westfield is a super expensive area but even down in Howell I'm probably only going to get a small townhouse, or a single family home with repairs that'll double the cost of the house. I know friends in Jackson spent much more than this on a townhome, though beautiful, has no yard and astronomical taxes. (Ang, coming with me?)

If we buy what we can afford in New Jersey, we'll have to move by the time we have more than 1 child. That is if we can even afford to move. In Indiana, we might be able to buy home and just stay. Not having to move again? That's also pretty tempting.

I know, I know. Pipe dreams right? Maybe, maybe not. The more I think about it, the more tempting this move sounds.