On the first day after the end of the school year, I wake up with the residual anxiety that there are tasks left undone and things left unsaid. It's the feeling after the passing of a storm when the full brightness of the sun emerges, yet in the distance, low rumbles of thunder remain.
Everything is in disarray around the house. Three different jackets hang from the dining room chairs because in Michigan spring, one can never be certain which will be needed for the day. The table is covered with unopened mail, thank you cards from students, dying flowers, debris from the final days of planning. The kitchen sink keeps filling up with dishes no one has time to clean.
Boxes and bags I've brought home from work wait in the back seat of the car, filled with books I've selected for summer research and planning for the coming year. Handwritten notes with observations I've made about future students and how I would like to begin the year with them wait for my review. I can't allow my ideas and insights to evaporate in the summer heat.
The storm has passed, leaving an array of destruction in its path. Before the process of rebuilding can take place, the debris must be cleared away. That's what teaching is like. The work doesn't end, it just changes.
I overheard a parent speaking to another teacher at a school function recently. "I wish I had summers off," he remarked. Me too, buddy, I thought. But it's time to clean up the mess, rebuild, start all over again.
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