The Sabbatical Life
I’ve taken on a self-imposed sabbatical. That’s the nicest way I can frame it because no one really wants to hear the words “unemployed” or “jobless.” But that’s where I’m at—and it’s a decision I made. I’m a teacher by trade, though I’ve worn many hats (and I’m not even talking about reincarnation).
I plan to be back in a classroom by September. (And if you’re reading this before then, dear reader, don’t jinx it.)
I like to call this a sandcastle moment: one of those times when the tide comes in and sweeps away the intricate structure you’ve built, and all you can do is start again. As a kid, I loved standing in the wet sand, letting the waves rush over my feet, tugging at the earth beneath me. That was the Gulf of Mexico of my childhood—a brown, brackish sea that never made it onto postcards.
Now, as an adult, I avoid beaches. Sand gets everywhere. But childhood made them magical.
Adult Life and the Flotsam of Responsibility
In adulthood, I’ve lost that innocent lens. Bills pile up. Garbage needs to be taken out. Taxes lurk. Cover letters wait to be written. I distract myself by listening to that haunting song from Donnie Darko—you know, the one with the time-traveling rabbit (cue Mad World by Gary Jules).
Still, I know I’m a good teacher because I’m not afraid of mess. I am, however, sensitive—to place, to atmosphere. I left my most recent job after only nine months (a full gestation), right after February break.
Part of that was my gut talking—something I’ve learned to trust, even if I come across as sweet and naïve. And part of it was concern for my mother, who had undergone two major surgeries in as many months. The last time I’d seen her was when we buried my father.
In a dream, a banshee hissed at me: “What if your mom dies, and the last time you saw her was at your father’s funeral?” So, I booked a flight from LGA to New Orleans and went home.
