Over the past few years, I've been watering the seeds of discontent in my soul with the repetitious drum of daily life. I thought a move to town would be enough to stir things up and renew my sense of self; I think instead it just added to my stress and strained the already tenuous grasp I have on my sanity. The whole move, while a sound practical decision, may have been a nothing more than an effort to shake me loose from the routine of "Real Life." I think about how often we use that strategy to breathe new life into ourselves; when we get a new outfit, or a new hair color, or a new vehicle or a new house, we feel for a moment like we are actually new people. I've used all of the above to re-energize my psyche to varying degrees over the years, though they never really last very long. It's funny, do we actually think that a change of scenery will awaken what is lying dormant in us and suddenly bring us forward into the glow of enlightenment? Swapping material goods has no lasting effect on what is essentially a part of who we are and what we do, and what ignites the passions for living that simmer below our surface.
What are we searching for, anyway? When I feel restless and uneasy and stale with the humdrum of daily living, I ask myself: what is it that I'm looking for? And often, I don't have an answer. I want health and happiness for my kids and that's pretty much it - anything else seems selfish and self-serving somehow. So we trudge along, day in and day out, and shine bright lights on the ordinary moments that make a regular day seem special - an unexpected favor, a well-placed compliment, or ice cream at midnight on the back step as you look out on the lake and ponder how the heck you got here. (I'm not saying I've ever done that - that's purely for illustration.)
But yesterday. Yesterday, magic happened, and for once I was paying attention. Yesterday, I blew the dust off my copy of Shakespeare's 'A Midsummer Night's Dream' and introduced it to my 8th graders. I used to teach this, all the way back in the early Colorado days, circa 2000-2006. I have loved Shakespeare since Bernie Brohaugh at UWRF let me pass his class on the first try. (That was NOT easy to do, people.) I had a revolving curriculum in Colorado that let me teach whatever I wanted whenever I wanted, and I brought the Bard to every class I ever taught. We had the best times, translating the language, performing the scenes, and illustrating his imagery.
When I got hired at Fairmont, however, there was a set curriculum with a clear map and plan, and Shakespeare is a 9-12 content topic. I knew I had been missing him a little, but I had no idea how much. This year, my department put the stamp of approval on adding a little taste of Shakespeare to the 8th grade curriculum and I was able to choose how I wanted to do it. So of course, I brought out the long-forgotten files on Shakespearean insults. I found the cartoon panels on how to follow the play-within-a-play, and I resurrected Puck, in all his irreverent glory, to the extreme delight of my classes. I knew they would love it; I did not know what effect it would have on me.
Approximately 6 lines into the play, I realized I was reading aloud from memory - reciting words that had lain waiting in the darker corners of my memory. I felt a brightness in my eyes, and energy in my words that I hadn't felt in ages. I taught for four hours in a row before a break, and when I collapsed into my chair I began to grasp the complete and utter change that had taken over my body. I felt energized, renewed. A surge of purpose flooded through me, and I found myself Googling activities and videos and planning future lessons with the vigor of my forgotten youth.
24 hours later, the energy has not subsided, the spring in my step is still there. I've been thinking deeply about this all day; I wonder sometimes if we too often look outside ourselves for ways to reinvent the passion of our youth. What if the passions of our youth are in fact the keys to keeping us young? What if we do not need a change, but rather a RETURN to something from our past? What if our quest to "become" something new, different, more, is a hollow promise? What if the answer was in us all along?
I don't mean to minimize the importance of the growing that we all do as we get older; we become wiser, more self-aware. We can view our past with sharp clarity of intent and purpose...and I wouldn't trade that knowledge for anything. But how delightful to discover that I didn't need to chop off my hair, buy a new shirt (or a house?) to find renewal. Mine came from the master storyteller himself, in the pages of a 400 year old story and on the faces of a room full of our future's brightest.
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