Enough

all good things…

I saw a sign today that said: Let it be enough.

The countdown to summer is humming throughout my classroom. It began as a soft tone with intermittent rumbles of an imminent thunderstorm brewing in the air. The children groaned that they were ready to be out of school, building to their crescendo: a cacophony of pencil tapping, cell phones ringing, conversations about Tik-Toks until all I can say is: “Stay with me kids; soon, soon, but we’re here right now.” I see their eyes drift to the windows as they play with their phones despite my mantra: “Phones on silent and in pockets. Phones on silent and in pockets. Phones on silent and in pockets.” I remind myself of flight attendants giving emergency landing instructions: “Brace. Brace. Brace.” Lately, I feel as if we are all bracing for something, and aren’t we though? Haven’t we all been bracing ourselves, not just these past two years, but all our lives for our own impact that we hope to be soft and gentle? Sometimes, being present has to be enough, though. Truth be told, I’ve been bracing for impact since my diagnosis in 2015, each time I enter the neurology office, have a nerve-conduction test, start a new treatment, or simply can’t breathe and speak at the same time. It’s ironic that I use the term, “simply,” but it is simple when I think about it. My body knows how to breathe and if it forgets, I remember stillness and breath comes back to me. That optimism must be enough for me. It must be enough in the classroom as well. This world and our students are hyper-connected and I set my own expectations as the newest teacher in the building and I have to believe that it enough, but if I could write them letters, this is what I would say–an open letter to all students–all readers:

Dear Reader,

Stay with me for a moment. Give me a moment to teach you to listen. I can teach you how to punctuate a sentence. I can teach you to summarize a piece of text that you won’t remember reading twenty years from now. I can teach you when World War I began and how it affected the Roaring Twenties leading to the Great Depression. I can teach you to speak respectfully to those you disagree with. I can teach you to meet deadlines. I can teach you to read Maya Angelou, Elie Wiesel, Emily Dickinson, and Joan Didion to name a few authors. I can teach you to think about  how their lives have impacted our world. I can teach you these things if you give me just a few moments of your time before impact. Before you need to know these things to brace yourselves when you must. But I cannot make time stop for you. For myself. For anyone. My wish for you is that you appreciate Angelou, Wiesel, Dickinson, and Didion, or whomever it is that inspires you to shape the life that you want, but I cannot teach you to listen if you do not give me time. I cannot gently remind you to look up at the people around you. Look at your friends. Look at me. If you must look out the window as I speak, look at the sky and see the possibilities. There’s so much to appreciate if you put down your technology for a moment, take a breath and be still. I cannot give you time, I can only give you a handful of tools to function in this life and I wish you all the knowledge in the world from the sky touches your soul so that you can grace this Earth with a gentle, yet powerful impact. 

Mr. S

And sometimes they do look up and I see a spark of curiosity and I want to jump from my wheelchair and say, “yes, yes, yes!” And those sparks have to be enough on days like today when I'm out sick and the rain has been pouring down. 

Dear Readers, I wish everyone enough, because that’s all we can be at 11 pm–enough.