I have been crazy making me. Should I stay or go? Every time I see the sun on the ridge casting light about I want to stay. When I walk into the courtyard of school and a group of student’s rush me saying “ Mas, Mas “Teacher, Teacher” and the Goldilocks’ one kisses my check I want to stay. In 1,000 ways I want to stay. Then the interior dialogue is swayed to the must get out of here. When rains like monsoons lurch from the heavens like a sky born Tsunami leaving my bones longing for warmth. When I have not heard my native tongue for a week. Or when some creepy crawler has chewed my arm for its midnight snack.
Last weekend I had occasion to go to the wine region, a lovely lush place. I spent the weekend with a young teacher who I met upon my arrival in this land. She listened as I wept telling her of the many goodbyes one must say as a teacher. (I used to tell my students that each child had their own room in my heart and indeed this seems true.)
We spent the next day traveling to the ancient monasteries and lighting candles. Prayers and wishes to heaven.
Then in that random way that is the way all days are here I ended up drinking homemade wine at the home of a highly regarded professor of education (Gela). At some point in his career he had a sabbatical in the states. He participated in an international consortium called Project Harmony. Gela has been nominated to be in an academic anthology of great men. (For the visual of this narrative think not Mr. Chips, think Tony Soprano.) This very rugged man is our toastmaster. People do not drink in Georgia. Drinking is ceremony. Wine is poured into gold bowels. Poem is said. Ancestors are reveled. After each toast all raise their glass and say “Garmajos”
We have been imbibing the sacred wine, sitting under a canopy of grapes. The accordion comes out and singing commences. We drink to peace. We drink to love.
I ask Gela if he should like to return to the states.
He looks at me and says, simply says, “ I have a bed”
And thus I knew my answer.
I have my bed.
It is mine.
Early on in deciding whether to travel to Georgia I had to ask some tough questions of myself, I am long past the age of geographical cure. Running away from home stopped working at eight, that time those boys were following me (Or so my mom said when I she urged to get me in the car when I was trying to follow the freeway to grandmas house.) I had to ask if I was going just to get way from writing for which I am mam temperamentally ill suited.
Last week when I was so churned about the which course of action to take I got an email stating I had place thirteenth of 100 selected in a contest by Writer’s Digest. A sign I suppose. Blessedly, always, and still I love teaching. It is a sacred and high work. It stirs one to be more, give more each day. It is a vocation a call.
Writing is laborious and arduous and most often like reels of family holiday films that sit in canisters. But it is the call and so I return.
I will post the work that was noted in the anthology. It was all about loss and grief. Ah and so again there is one more farewell.
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