I have called my little school on the downtown east side of Vancouver home for 21 years. A lifetime of sorts. Many little lives have been part of mine.
I am a bat with ancient wings folded close. Black and leathery. Full of secrets. Lined in wisdom. Shimmering with history. I can stretch these wings wide and story after story shines bright, each one a most important star. Stories of children. Of families. Of hope. Heartache. Trauma. Resilience. Inspiration.
My memories were gifted to me in hugs and giggles. Through whispers and shouts. Confided. Shared. Shouted. Hinted at. Memories visit me on a soft warm wind. They bring me smiles and worry. But mostly joy.
In this old brick building, I have learned thousands of lessons. I have had hundreds of teachers. I have been surrounded by wisdom and wonder. I have made many mistakes. All of it has landed me here, knowing that I have some of it figured out and much to still learn. I haven’t heard it all. I can still be surprised. I can still be stopped cold. I can still feel like I’m floating. It is harder and easier and easier and harder. I am safe in that. There is security in knowing that what I bring each day is enough in the land of never enough and so much need. Everyday, I give. Everyday, I get. It’s not about balance or equal shares. It’s about what it is.
In September, I will not walk through these halls I have long called home. I will be somewhere else. I will not be gone. It’s not moving on. It’s not leaving. It’s beginning somewhere new. The teacher I am was made here. All of it will follow me. All of it will guide me.
As I begin to say goodbye, I acknowledge this.
Slice of Life is hosted by Two Writing Teachers. I thank them for the community they provide. Read more slices here.