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Shape Changer

I am more grateful than I can say for the warm weather we've had this past week. With the sun out, and the temperatures rising into the sixties during the day, the snow is almost gone, the streams are high, and there's a riot of life going on in the woods.

At the same time, this is March... the time of year just before the main onslaught of the state's MCAS tests and spring fever for my students. Whatever of substance I'm going to teach my students before the year ends, this is it: the last chance to really deliver the meaty stuff. So every day,my head is full of teenagers: raucous, distractable, brightly-colored, enthusiastic, sullen, needy teenagers. From the morning bell to the departure of the last bus, there is very little room for me inside my head these days.

Teenagers and their drama take up a lot of space in my life. And it's not that the self I carry through my days is false, but it is partial, maybe a little cramped, like a pair of too-tight shoes. I bring my real self to school with me each day--it's one of the things kids like about me, I suspect. But not my whole self: my whole self just does not fit into the role I have in their lives for those 64-minute class periods. I am role model, mentor, goad, scold, and cheerleader, but most of all, I am there for them, and not for me. I fit my expression to their needs, as they flux from day to day: now patient, now funny, now stern, but always shining just a little bit brighter and more outwardly than I might prefer, left to my own concerns.

I have always been an inward kind of a person.

So it's a relief, as I guide my car along the winding country roads between my school and my home every afternoon, to feel the school and Ms. Bishop slipping away. As the branches of trees flicker past, and I reach the shady, hemlock-lined road along the river, I remember again that the woods are waiting for me, and in only a few more minutes, I can slip of my teacher-skin, like a tight pair of shoes, and go off by myself among the trees.

Out on the trails, the leaf-mold is soft underfoot. Icy water bubbles from the ground, and I can see deer tracks in the mud. There are hidden birds singing, and the wind makes the pine boughs speak and the swamp maples clack a quiet percussion overhead.

It is like changing shape. My social self glides away on that wind, and I smell the air differently. The shade of trees welcomes me, and I slip within it, shifting form. I become more deer, or dog, or fish under the surface of a pool than human woman.

It is one of the best feelings I know. Without the earth, we are not complete; without the land, I cannot forget myself enough to become who I really, fully am.

* * * *

So what am I doing here, typing on a computer keyboard? The sun is still well up in the sky. The woods are ready.

I have paused to shift my self yet another way for just a moment, trying on the shape of writer, dreamer, word-smith. I'm done now, however. Ready to let the human parts go, and find out what the woods want from me today.

Blessed be.

Comments

Hystery said…
Cat,
You have captured something here that I have also experienced and I thank you for giving expression to it so beautifully as you always do. I also wish so very much you had been one of my teachers when I was a kid, but I am very glad you are one of my teachers now. Brightest blessings.
Joy said…
My eyes are brimming with tears, and I want to enjoy them, so I won't spend the time to explain why this post just helped me with a major conundrum. The answer is that I may not know in advance how my requests of Spirit might be answered. I have to stay open to the solution being something quite unlike I had imagined. And I must not hold back, but must trust and leap, even if I'm afraid. (This has to do with wanting a woods like you have.)

Thank you ever so very much, Cat.
Thanks again, Friend.

I do something like this when I get home from the library...but I live in town, the woods are a half-hour away.

Part of what I do, have done through two careers, is to have work clothes and "real me" clothes. Changing clothes is the first thing I do when I get home...and hubby Jim knows I might inadvertently bite his head off if he gets in my space before I've done that ritual.

We are such weird animals!

Blessed Be,
Michael

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