Tall Trees Catch the Breeze

A raven greeted us this morning on our daily business walk. Trixie and Arlo didn’t seem to notice, caught up in the smells held by the grass, figuring out the perfect spot to pee.

I did.

“Good morning, Raven!”

It continued its gronking for several minutes until a crow interrupted. They both continued for a while, back and forth. I am not sure what they were saying, but I was grateful to be allowed to eavesdrop. Whereas crows have the familiar cawing sound, ravens have a throatier “gronk,” matching their larger size and stature. We hear ravens less frequently than crows up here, and I always feel it’s a gift when one decides to let me know that they’re close by.

I have not been in K-12 education for two years now, but my nervous system hasn’t caught up with this reality. It still thinks that this time of year means professional development, parent emails complaining about their child’s class placement, the delivery of teaching materials delayed, and some vaguely worded new mandate that the state has conjured with which we need to ensure compliance. COMPLIANCE. Lots and lots and lots of talk of compliance.

It has been two years, and I’ve yet to rid myself of the seasonal anxiety dreams, the clenched jaw, and the racing heart that was, for over a decade, standard late summer Necole. In the moment I wake up each mid-August morning, I forget where I am, both literally and figuratively. My body and subconscious still defaulting to “it’s the end of summer, and I am spinning.” Even as I open my eyes to our cabin bedroom, consciously knowing where I am, I still feel the spin.

Before the raven greeted me today, I did what I do every morning. I stand on the front steps of our cabin and fill my lungs with air rich with the smell pine needles and grass. My whole body sighs as I exhale, remembering that I am here now. I am safe. I say good morning to the earth, the trees, the birds, the wind, the critters, the insects. I do this every morning. It is my way of reminding myself that I am in this place that feels whole, simple, and right.

I am no longer at the whims of people whom I don’t trust, trying to mitigate their impact upon the people I do.  

I have a community that is rich, funny, and flawed.

I don’t have a mortgage.

I am married to a man who loves me and makes me feel safe. Bonus that he is also quite the looker, hilarious, and willing to face some pretty dark shit of his own.

I have a vibrant, matriarchal research community filled with some of the smartest, silliest, truthful women I know.

I have a beautiful coven of women who surround me, nurture me, and remind me who I am both when I am feeling secure and when I am faltering.

I have several jobs I love, and they all make my brain work differently.

I recently interviewed for a position for which I probably would have been great – it required a mix of all of my professional skills and knowledges, a unique blend that seemed to fit me perfectly. It was with a highly regarded school, and I thought that I could really contribute meaningfully in this role. I unequivocally bombed the interview. Despite friends telling me that I needed to be concrete in my answers, I was theoretical. Despite actually having concrete examples of things I have done that reflect my ability to do the job for which they were hiring, I didn’t cogently provide those examples. Perhaps it was because I was out of practice, or perhaps it was that I was interviewing from an unairconditioned dorm room in Halisham, UK on the last night of an academic conference. Or perhaps it was just that it wasn’t right for me.

The whole thing felt like I was looking at a math problem that I couldn’t seem to solve. All of the numbers were there, they made sense, and I knew the steps to solve the problem. I just couldn’t figure it out. And it wasn’t just that the interview went poorly; it was that the whole dynamic – the job prospect, what it would mean for my life if I were to get and accept it, the respect I had for the school itself. Despite it looking like the perfect fit, it wasn’t.

I am now a few weeks out from that interview, and I haven’t heard anything from the interview committee. Aside from my wish to have a definitive “no,” the overwhelming feeling within me is relief. I don’t have to think about what would happen to my current life if I got the job and took it. It came with the familiar buzz of excitement that always teetered on the edge of panic. Maybe my body and my brain knew that as I sat a dorm desk starting at a Zoom screen, and across the Atlantic, maybe the women interviewing me sensed that too.

I am 51. The buzz has far less appeal than it used to. It’s exhausting even thinking about it. One of the most significant things I have learned since leaving my job two years ago is that it’s really easy to conflate a sense of familiarity with comfort. And while I am really good at certain things, that ability does not mean I should be doing those things. I was an elementary school principal for 13 years. While the work excited me and enriched my life, its toll upon me was profound, and if this seasonal anxiety shows me anything, it’s that I haven’t yet recovered. I’m unsure I ever will.  

Instead, for now, I sit with the math problem that does make sense to me. Its solution lies outside of “but you’re so good at this” and “you’re still so young.” It contradicts all of the steps I was told would work, all of the career advice I’ve ever been given. It gronks with the ravens, and caws with the crows. It smells like pine and mountains. It is the breath I take every morning that reminds me of where and who I am.