I have had a really hard year. Truth.

I can hint at why and wrap up the truth in nuanced imagery that only I understand. Truth.

I really just want to lay it all out on the page. Truth.

Because what I am not talking about, not writing about, not sharing is a bunch of not okay stuff that really should be talked about. Truth.

I work in a system and live in a world where it seems keeping all things quiet and all things confidential is more important than being vocal about things that are wrong. Truth.

I am so tired of this. Truth.

Words are powerful.

The truth does not like to be quietly ignored.

My bravest moments have been when I have written about things I was afraid to share.

True.

True.

True.

I know what I can’t say. But I can push right up to the edges. Because my voice is my own. And there is power in words.

The moment we stop believing that our truth matters is when we lose our power.

When we don’t expect a better truth going forward, we feel smaller.

Keeping ugly things quiet is like nurturing something rotten. It just plain stinks.

I am sick of the smell.

Inhaling it gets easier as time passes.

Lie.

I am packing.

Kind of.

More like getting ready to pack. I am packing to go somewhere. Where?  I don’t yet know. A year from now I will be settled into some other classroom in some other school somewhere in this city. At least that’s the plan. Job postings aren’t out yet. So I have no idea on most of this.

I have two feet firmly planted in the day to day intensity of what I do. But I also have a few feet walking in circles in the land of unknown possibility. Pacing. Circling. Wondering. I have a toe reaching out to imagine other places. A younger grade? An older class? I have restless feet that don’t know how to be still.

Clearly, I don’t have enough feet.

My head is full of a soundtrack that I need subtitles to understand. Or a “how to think about it all” manual. Like swirling clouds on a fast wind, all of this speeds by while I stand in a frozen sort of limbo. I am no longer tethered to this place that has been such a part of my life. But as I don’t belong anywhere else yet, I am still so very, very home in this classroom, in this school, where I have worked for more than two decades. This is who I am. But soon, very soon, it won’t be. I still belong but I almost don’t.

I am walking quickly on an unclear path.

I am standing sideways where I have always been.

I am twirling slowly looking for a new center.

I am all kinds of lost.

I go through the motions of beginning to pack. It is more about pretending to be productive. Attempting to find a movement train and jumping aboard.

Packing right now is not yet about boxes. It is about sorting. About shifting – piles and energy. I stop often and just stand in the middle of my classroom and take it all in. Maybe somehow if I look at everything just the right way, I will find clarity.

I need to know which way I am turning.

It needs to be more than just away.

Those unreal goodbyes need to begin.

I will hold them tight and then let them go.

We can’t really capture where we’ve been until we are pointed in a new direction.

Just being in it is too murky. Too much of not yet.

I feel dizzy standing still.

Stepping into tomorrow is becoming more about the unknown than the known. One foot in front of the other. Moving away while still here. Looking at nothing through cloudy glass.

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.

It is April. Spring. My birthday month.

My students ask “How old are you really?” as if I might not tell them the truth.

The truth it seems no longer has a number. Not a really number. The years now get mixed up with memories and dreams and visions.

Really, I am every age.

I see a small child in the arms of her mother at school. She grabs my finger and smiles. For a moment, it is twelve years ago and I am weaving through the baby days. Park. Sidewalks. Nap time. Snuggles. Snack. Sidewalks. Park. Dinner. Then, I am a grandmother with my granddaughter in my future arms, being aware of the solid body, the sweet smell, the joy of the giggle.

Standing under fragrant lilac trees, I am twenty-five. I walk around various city neighbourhoods inhaling spring and wondering if one day, one neighbourhood will be mine. I am thirty-seven sitting in the afternoon sun under my own lilac tree, with pale lavender blooms. I watch my children drive toy trucks through the garden beds. I am seventy-two with time to collect and arrange blossoms in a vase placing it where I will notice it often as I move through my house in my daily routines.

I hang the laundry on the line on the first warm enough day I find. I am fourteen clipping my father’s work shirts to the line in the early morning air. Soon, I will collect them and iron them in the cool of the basement away from the summer sun that makes afternoons unbearable. I am forty hanging out still tiny socks wondering how my children are possibly old enough for school. I am old. Quiet and alert. I hang out tea towels in the early morning sun and listen for the cries from the hawks hoping they have nested again this year.

On my morning walk I smell the nearness of rain. I am eight running towards home, wondering if there will be a storm with lightening flashes to watch out the front windows. I am the mother of seven-year olds that I dropped to school without rain jackets. I watch the sky wondering if this rain will pass. I am forty-two sipping coffee in the beach house we rented, up before everyone, watching the water. I am seventy-one, sitting at the table noticing how the rain pulls the branches of our old pine tree further and further down. Everything looks so green in the rain.

How old am I really?

Old.

Young.

Wise.

Ignorant.

Worried.

Brave.

I am every age.

Slice of Life is hosted by Two Writing Teachers. I thank them for the community they provide. Read more slices here.