My Cups of Tee has lain dormant for two years. I’ve thought about writing a lot – a lot in terms of the number of times I consider the act and the quantity I hope to create. I sometimes approach writing as I do a mountain of laundry to fold or a week’s worth of lessons to plan: I procrastinate about it for too long (laundry) and feel overwhelmed by the task (lessons), only to feel a sense of relief (laundry) and accomplishment (lessons) once it’s finished. Procrastination is easy for a writer who isn’t a Writer. If I don’t fold laundry, my family will run around naked. If I don’t plan lessons, my students won’t learn and I’ll lose my job. If I don’t write, well, there really are no consequences.
While not writing, I’ve thought about reviving my blog as something polished and impressive. I’ve thought about creating an entirely new blog. Thinking these things has been a really good way to not actually do any writing. I’m a bit tired of not writing, though, so I’ve renamed the blog (more about that in a few paragraphs), called it good, and here we go…
The summer of 2019 started with a two-week European road trip – plenty of blog material. Dan and I had contemplated an international move for years. Having traveled throughout western Europe as a couple, we wanted to take the boys with us this time to see if Europe felt like a place our family could once again call home. It did. Upon our return, I focused my attention on updating my resume and preparing for an international teaching recruitment fair that would take place in January. At the same time, I joined a parenting blog as a contributing writer and began the process of renewing my National Board teaching certificate. I physically and mentally couldn’t bring myself to do any more writing.
January 2020 was pivotal. The pandemic lurked on the periphery as I flew to London for the recruitment fair. Days after returning, I’d accepted a position at a school in Germany. Dan and I began the intense process of prepping our home to sell and our family to move as the reality of covid crept closer and closer.
The job search was over, but then came March 13th. The last day before spring break was revised to be a half day for students with a prepping afternoon for teachers. When my parents picked up the boys for play time at Nanna and Granddad’s, I didn’t realise the afternoon would be the last time during the four months before our move that the boys would play inside my parents’ house. Meanwhile, my colleagues and I convened in the school library to plan for a potential short-term shift to remote teaching. I left school with a vague impression of platforms like Zoom and Loom. Fittingly, I zoomed first to my favourite bakery to pick up a treat just for me, and then to the mall to hurriedly use a gift card. Days before, I’d canceled my trip to my beloved Seattle, Dan’s 40th birthday gift to me. The pandemic was closing in as the likelihood of a lockdown loomed. Browsing the racks in Anthropologie, I was selfishly desperate to steal a final few minutes of Me Time. I left the store with a birthday gift for my mum and a cocoon-style cardigan for myself. I didn’t realise just how appropriate the style would prove to be. Instead of a spring break of freedom and adventures, the world came to a standstill.
The short-term shift to remote learning went on and on. I couldn’t bring myself to write. Even as I submitted my National Board renewal components last June and decided to step back from the parenting blog, I couldn’t bring myself to write.
I’d had an idea to reinvent my blog. International teaching brings with it international travel. Perhaps a travel blog would be apropos. We moved in July. By school’s end in June, we’d barely explored beyond Hannover, let alone beyond Germany’s borders.
Germany felt like a magical place when we arrived. We’d left the U.S. with socially-distanced goodbyes; we spent our first weeks in Hannover getting to know my new colleagues and their families at playgrounds, coffee shops, and biergartens. In August, the boys and I began school in person for the first time since March. My energy went toward adjusting to a new home and a new teaching role. By December, though, covid numbers were rising and a lockdown was once again our reality. I couldn’t bring myself to write beyond the occasional catharsis of my journal.
Instead of traveling and writing, I’ve been teaching, parenting, and reading. I read Matt Haig’s The Midnight Library, exploring the many lives Nora could have lived had she chosen differently. I read V.E. Schwab’s The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue, mesmerised by the beautiful language that spins a tale of a woman trying in vain to leave her mark on the world. I read Alix E. Harrow’s The Once and Future Witches, entranced by history, magic, and persistence woven together. I read Harrow’s The Ten Thousand Doors of January, visiting new worlds through each door. Addie and January taught me a new word: palimpsest. A palimpsest is a manuscript on which more than one text has been written. I read this definition, and an idea began to form. And then I found another definition, which resonated even more: something that has changed over time and shows evidence of that change. That’s what my writing is. That’s who I am.
Spring brought with it analogies of humanity emerging from the pandemic like butterflies emerging from cocoons or seeds sprouting after months spent dormant underground. Although I literally shed my “covid cardi” as I awaited my first vaccine injection, standing in the springtime sun with a group of fellow teachers, I haven’t yet emerged fully from the figurative cocoon of the past year. I show evidence of change. At least, I think I do. I think I’ll discover that change gradually, through the journey of a lifetime. And so, to palimpsest.
To Palimpsest 