The Consequences of Loving and Leaving

Sunrise in Rio Grande Valley

My heart hurts. That's the only I can think of describing leaving the Valley. I'm used to my throat hurting, or some spot between my throat and my chest, aching in the way that it aches when I need to cry, feeling tight, feeling tangy, feeling that familiar squeeze. But this was just a deep sense of sadness in my chest. Not an urge to cry, just a heaviness, like the feeling I have when I watch the news. I spent several days in the Valley saying goodbye to various friends. And while part of me is happy that those dear people that I said goodbye to months ago I will have the pleasure of hugging hello again, there is the other part of me that realized how much I've cared for people here, how much we've loved each other and helped each other through this transition, and that when I say goodbye to them it could be permanent because most will have no reason to come to Oregon and I'll have only them as a reason to ever come to Texas. And no one else will understand our experience. Even though I wrote about it, no one else will know what it felt like to wake up in Moody Towers at 5am under the pressure we were under when the toilets weren't working, or to sit through literacy sessions trying not to fall asleep and having eventually to stand in the back of the room, etc.

I have loved these friends in Texas. I was not alone, but I felt alone because we were so busy we didn't have time to see much of each other. And it's hard because then I hear how stressed they are too, how much they are struggling, and I feel guilty for being the one to leave. Especially when friends who have become so precious to me, like Meeshy, tell me how much they will miss me and love me and that I am their closest friend here. I could not have gotten this far without them. I would not have grown in the ways I've grown without them. I leave such a big piece of my heart here in Texas.

And my students have been calling and texting me. I gave them my phone number and email on the last day. As I was packing my UHaul and waiting for someone from Craigslist to come buy my bed, I got a call from a local number and answered; it ended up being one of my students, taking a bathroom break, just calling to say that the class misses me. A few other students texted me for 30 minutes on Monday night, telling me that their new teacher is strict and they miss me and love me and that I am the only teacher who cares. My newest talent: inspirational text messaging. Of course your new teacher cares or she wouldn't be there, and she's only strict because she really cares about your learning. You are bright, hard working young women who will be successful in whatever you do. Please study hard and do your best in school. I know, it doesn't sound like much but TRUST ME, it was golden. They are sweet kids. It makes me wish I loved teaching. It makes me wish I could have the kind of one-on-one relationships with them that I'd like to have, to which traditional teaching doesn't exactly lend itself. It makes me wish, in a way, that I was staying, or that I could go back.

At the same time, I met with my fellow English teachers for one last drink after school on Monday. When I walked in the restaurant and saw Jason & Sam, I smiled, happy to see them and remembering the lunches we shared during in-service week and the time sitting in each other's rooms talking about starting our first year of teaching. And then I smiled bigger, and bigger, not really knowing why. "Wow," said Sam, "you look really happy. I haven't seen you smile like that before. You look really, really happy." And suddenly, I felt happy. I felt genuinely happy for the first time in I have no idea how long. Yes, I felt moments of happiness during the last few months. I laughed genuine laughs. I had authentic good times. I smiled real smiles. But in that instant, I felt truly happy, and free. "I am happy. I'm sorry that I have to do this. But I think I am happy. Yeah, I think I feel good about this." I remember my roommate Hillary telling me, when I was still deciding to go or stay, that she had been excited to live with me because she could see, at times, my energy and enthusiasm and humor. But then living with me, she only saw me stressed, anxious, and unhappy. "What I want for you," she told me sitting at my dining room table, "is to see you smile. For real. To see that energy in you, to see you excited about your life. To see you being the amazing and powerful and passionate you that I know you are, and that for some reason you are not able to be here. And if it takes leaving to get you to being that person, go. Be that person for yourself and the world." I want that too. And in that moment with my coworkers, I knew it will come...

I don't want to make too much of happiness. Happiness is a mood, happiness is a momentary state, happiness is cyclical, happiness is transitory. You cannot have happiness, because you cannot understand happiness, without sadness, without struggle, without pain. My aim is not happiness because I know that is only attainable for some amount of time before things change, because life is change. That's why I think Katie's picture of Peace, Love, Joy means so much to me. These seem attainable and maintainable (I guess I think of joy as more simplistic than happiness, even more momentary-- moments of rejoicing for life, like appreciating the sunrise, or pine needles floating on a reflective puddle, as opposed to happiness which seems more of a lasting state, needing many moments of joy and pleasure to create it). Maybe I'm overanalyzing here. What I'm trying to say is that my goal is not happiness. I welcome happiness and I seek it, but I'm not dumping teaching and these friends and these students solely for happiness's sake. My goal is balance, my goal is creating more peace, love, and joy, my goal is feeling right in my place and in my heart and in my intuition.

I left a lot in Texas. Aside from this being a HUGE financial debacle, and an emotional roller coaster, I also had physical stuff that I could not bring home. Like a bed which I luckily sold (even if for almost 1/2 what I paid a month ago). Like some furniture I bought -- a desk, a bookcase, a lamp, etc. But luckily I left those things with Meeshy who needed them and has not had the same financial advantages I had moving down here with a savings account and some things in tow. She became my beneficiary and I am happy to sponsor her. Despite the incredible challenges she's had so far, she has such a good heart and is braving through this with amazing courage. And if my desk and bedside table make her little house more like a home, if that gives her more comfort to pursue her passion and be an amazing special ed teacher, then I feel like the whole voyage was worth it. If my support of Jenna through Institute, our lesson planning evenings, our cry fests, our venting during our planning time, if that helps her be a better 6th grade reading teacher and to have an impact on her students, then my voyage was worth it. Even if during my four weeks of teaching, I said something to even slightly impact my kids (and maybe I did something right if they are texting and emailing me), then maybe that makes it worth it too. I don't know what the point of this was. I don't even know what I'm taking away exactly or what I learned. Except that I love easily and quickly. Except goodbyes are never easy. Except that I could never stop caring for these people. And although I drove out of the RGV on Thursday morning, I left pieces of my heart. I hope that's enough for now.

Jenna and me with our heads in the clouds