It took a teachers’ strike to clear the ache between my ribs.
I had tried (again) to set a plan for myself this term: focus on my two jobs, save up, accept that all writing was lost until the end of the year, and… listen. Listen to my natural inclinations when I stumbled upon rare pockets of free time. What did I gravitate towards? What did I honour? What fortified me in my lowest hours?
And some of this worked. The listening, absolutely, worked. I hear my goals in my Spanish practice. I hear my goals in my running and climbing. I hear my goals in my freelance editing and the bursts of writing that enter my tight schedule regardless.
But what made the grandest difference? It was that moment when the threat of a strike at a job where I had been working hard–a job for which I had made such upsetting sacrifices in the first place!–became a reality. The moment I knew the strike was inevitable, that great weight of personal responsibility lifted–because no amount of fretting or scheming could make a damned bit of difference anymore.
As news of the strike spread, I then received many words of comfort: “I’m sure you won’t be out very long.” “At least you’re not picketing too far away.” “At least the weather will be kind this week.” “At least you’re getting some income from strike pay.” But what struck me, at each iteration, was how little I felt I needed the reassurance. Pay is out of my control right now: amid myriad rumours at the start of strike, I believe only the cold, hard truth of whatever eventually ends up in my bank account–which leaves me a great deal of room to be pleasantly surprised. Weather, too, is out of my control right now: there were some decent, brilliantly coloured fall days, and now there are wet, cold, and windy days. So it goes.
So it all goes.
But, listen–amid the picketing I am writing again, because there is time for it and because it is what I love to do; and rediscovering that has made me come alive once more. Granted, I’m slow to finish anything, having been out of the practice for a while, but in the process of renewing these dearest mental muscles, I am also returning to old forms and finding new challenges. I hear myself reclaiming the poetry of life again–in nature, in prose, in myself. The other day, I realized I wanted to write a kind of writing that I had never seen done before, and the mere idea of building a whole line of pieces around this concept, over the many decades in which I have left to grow as a writer, stopped me mid-stride on the sidewalk from sheer excitement. (It also impeded foot traffic for a beat or three, sure–but, that too rectified itself in time.)
And yes, the strike will end–meaning, classes will resume, and my difficult original schedule (much as I love the teaching itself) will return.
But then the year will end, and oh, the new one holds so much promise.
I know it does, because I’ve been hearing that promise ever since the universe, in all its great indifference to human striving, left me no choice but to walk the ‘line. And oh, what a tremendous gift that added obstacle has proven, at last, to be.
See you in 2018, all you magnificent dreamers, you!