...that time of year again
Today at school I said no to -- I was going to say "a lot of things," but in fact only three. Still: more than zero. It's the beginning of the school year, which means that on top of my own teaching and other work I am receiving a great many requests for my time and expertise. And some of these requests I have been able to say yes to with happiness and enthusiasm, and others have me weighing my options, but three of them, today, I looked at and thought I really don't think I can do that -- and then I realized that I don't have to, and I said no.
I have spent the past three years feeling, logically or not, that I was not in a position to say no to things, that I would get punished for it down the line, and now it feels strange to have some measure of control back. Good, but strange. I can insist that the students in my own courses are more important to me than other work obligations. I can decline to get sucked into work drama after 5pm. I can remind students that if they want to do a directed study with me they should have set it up last spring. I can set aside a few hours a week in which my own creativity comes first.
The next few weeks are going to be overwhelming -- they always are -- but I think there's relief on the horizon.
Two students bounced into my office today to tell me about their summer jobs, their classes, their excitement about projects and internships. Another, working the circulation desk at the library, greeted me with a big smile and an inquiry about my garden. Another, out for a late afternoon run, grinned and nodded at me as I unlocked my bike from the rack next to my building. Two more honked and hollered greetings as they drove past me on the way up the hill between campus and home, and I took my left hand off the handlebars to wave.
As I coasted down the alley to my house, my neighbor two doors down called, "Need any corn?" I called back that I have plenty, but thanks. In the garage, I parked the bike and pulled a head of garlic down from one of the bundles hanging from the rafters. The cats called greetings from the upstairs window. Inside, I put down my backpack and the garlic, put a pot of water on to boil, picked up a basket, and went back out to pick some of that corn, along with tomatoes and basil. We had rain last night; the squash vines have grown a couple of inches since this morning. I sat on my back steps, shucking corn and slapping at mosquitoes and listening to the sound of a lawn mower down the block. Back in the kitchen, I dropped the corn in the boiling water, put some music on, poured myself a glass of wine, and sliced tomatoes and basil for a salad.
And now the music's done and the wineglass is empty and I'm sitting in my living room, looking out at my neighbor's sunflowers in the gathering dusk, one cat purring on my lap, another perched on the back of the sofa watching for rabbits in the yard. In a few minutes I'll get up and do the dishes. But right now I'm content to sit here, to feel myself settling back into my life, my real life, the one I wanted long before I thought I could actually have it. And here it is, cats and tomatoes and music and bookshelves and students, the reading lamp coming on in the dark corner across the room, the quiet of my own house, and me in it. Where I belong.
Originally posted at Dreamwidth || Read
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I have spent the past three years feeling, logically or not, that I was not in a position to say no to things, that I would get punished for it down the line, and now it feels strange to have some measure of control back. Good, but strange. I can insist that the students in my own courses are more important to me than other work obligations. I can decline to get sucked into work drama after 5pm. I can remind students that if they want to do a directed study with me they should have set it up last spring. I can set aside a few hours a week in which my own creativity comes first.
The next few weeks are going to be overwhelming -- they always are -- but I think there's relief on the horizon.
Two students bounced into my office today to tell me about their summer jobs, their classes, their excitement about projects and internships. Another, working the circulation desk at the library, greeted me with a big smile and an inquiry about my garden. Another, out for a late afternoon run, grinned and nodded at me as I unlocked my bike from the rack next to my building. Two more honked and hollered greetings as they drove past me on the way up the hill between campus and home, and I took my left hand off the handlebars to wave.
As I coasted down the alley to my house, my neighbor two doors down called, "Need any corn?" I called back that I have plenty, but thanks. In the garage, I parked the bike and pulled a head of garlic down from one of the bundles hanging from the rafters. The cats called greetings from the upstairs window. Inside, I put down my backpack and the garlic, put a pot of water on to boil, picked up a basket, and went back out to pick some of that corn, along with tomatoes and basil. We had rain last night; the squash vines have grown a couple of inches since this morning. I sat on my back steps, shucking corn and slapping at mosquitoes and listening to the sound of a lawn mower down the block. Back in the kitchen, I dropped the corn in the boiling water, put some music on, poured myself a glass of wine, and sliced tomatoes and basil for a salad.
And now the music's done and the wineglass is empty and I'm sitting in my living room, looking out at my neighbor's sunflowers in the gathering dusk, one cat purring on my lap, another perched on the back of the sofa watching for rabbits in the yard. In a few minutes I'll get up and do the dishes. But right now I'm content to sit here, to feel myself settling back into my life, my real life, the one I wanted long before I thought I could actually have it. And here it is, cats and tomatoes and music and bookshelves and students, the reading lamp coming on in the dark corner across the room, the quiet of my own house, and me in it. Where I belong.
Originally posted at Dreamwidth || Read
comments on Dreamwidth