My last day teaching was the Wednesday before Thanksgiving in 2012. It was a half day of school, and most teachers left shortly after the students to start prepping for the holiday. So a few hours after I said my final goodbyes to my students, it was just me and the custodial staff left in the building. I sat at my desk, almost nine months pregnant, looking around at my empty classroom. I thought back through all of my students and lesson plans, field trips and class meetings, read alouds and inside jokes. I think I did an early version of the questions I wrote about in my first newsletter. It wasn’t intentional then, but I let myself grieve. I let myself celebrate. I thought about the people that had walked that journey with me.
There was one question I didn’t ask though. Is there anything you’re holding onto that you need to let go of?
I don’t think I even could have let go of what I held onto then. My identity as a teacher was too wrapped up in who I was. I had only been a classroom teacher for eight years, but I couldn’t remember a time when I didn’t want to be a teacher. I couldn’t really imagine a version of me not teaching.
I knew that I would not be returning to the classroom that school year, planning to stay home with Norah. But I didn’t think I wouldn’t be returning to a classroom ever.
Over the next eight years my answer to the question of whether I would go back to teaching went from, “I think so”, to “Maybe”, to “I don’t know”, to “No, I’m happy staying home”.
I was telling the truth every time.
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I’m still waiting for this whole motherhood/birth thing to hit me like a giant tidal wave. My friend texted me last month. She’s pregnant with her first baby.
Honestly, sometimes I’m still waiting for this whole motherhood thing to hit me like a tidal wave too, and I’m eight years in. I wrote back.
And then, because I’m me, I looked up the definition of a tidal wave.
According to the National Ocean Service, a tidal wave is “a regularly reoccurring shallow water wave caused by effects of the gravitational interactions between the Sun, Moon, and Earth on the ocean. The term "tidal wave" is often used to refer to tsunamis; however, this reference is incorrect as tsunamis have nothing to do with tides.”
That got me thinking. We say we’re waiting for a tidal wave, but maybe that’s what we’ve been feeling all along. That slow lapping of the water that welcomes us into the ocean, the unknown of something new. Tiny waves pulling us deeper and deeper, but still allowing us to keep our head above water.
While becoming a mother in some ways felt like being dropped in the middle of the ocean, watching my kids grow up and finding my own confidence as a mother feels more like slowly wading in from the shore. All of a sudden the tide is lapping at my belly button and I didn’t even realize my feet have acclimated to the temperature of the water.
***
Some transitions do feel like a tsunami crashing over our heads, whether we chose them or they chose us. But I think most transitions in life are like wading into the ocean, letting the tidal waves slowly lap at us as we wade further out. Eventually we look up and see how far from the shore we are. More of our body has acclimated to this new thing that by now actually feels like this old thing.
I’ve been a mother for eight years - the same amount of time I was a teacher. Maybe there’s muscle memory there for me that makes me feel the need for a big change right now.
The tagline for this newsletter is “practicing stillness in the in between”. But what does being still look like when there are tidal waves constantly pulling and pushing? How do we practice stillness, not just in the obvious transitions, but while we wade into the ocean?
Here comes my confession. Lately, I have really been struggling with jealousy. I think it’s because I sense that I want to transition, but my feet no longer touch the bottom of the ocean and the tidal waves are carrying me deeper and I don’t have control on the direction they’re pushing me. I see friends or acquaintances building their business or writing their books or getting opportunities they have worked hard for. And I feel like I’m treading water, longing for something they have. But the longer I looked, it became clear to me that I’m not even jealous of what they have. I’m jealous that they know what they want.
So maybe practicing stillness in the everyday takes a little movement first. Maybe before I can be still, I need to swim back to shore, get my feet on dry land, and listen for the voice of the Holy Spirit.
From shore maybe I can set my eyes on where I’m going and wade back in with more purpose.
In some ways I will always be a teacher. And I will certainly always be a mother. I think each time I wade back into shore, I get to let go of some parts of those identities that no longer suit me, and the ones that do grow stronger. I don’t know which part of the ocean I’ll be wading into next, but I do know that my experience as a teacher and as a mother will help me remember to expect tidal waves and that they aren’t that big after all.
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Here are a few questions to ponder when you feel like you’ve just looked up and didn’t even realize how far into the ocean you are:
When did you first dream about the things you’re now doing?
How have you changed since that dream was just a whisper in your heart?
Is that still your dream?
What does swimming back to shore look like for you?
How do you practice being still during everyday transitions?
See you back in your inbox in August,
Jodie
P.S. Answering a few of these questions with you:
What does swimming back to shore look like for you?
Right now, it looks like hiring a coach. At other times it’s looked like counseling or spiritual direction. It always looks like being really honest about where I am with my husband and a few close friends.
How do you practice being still during slow transitions?
Contemplative prayer is a wonderful daily practice. In this sermon given at Bridgetown Church a few years ago, our dear friend Fr. Rick Ganz explains it well. We met Rick when we were students at Gonzaga and he quickly became one of our favorite people. He performed our wedding almost 15 years ago and now is the director of the Faber Institute in Oregon. Rick has a way of speaking and writing that slows me down in the best way. When you listen to or read his words it’s so clear that he trusts the Holy Spirit to work in the space he leaves. His monthly Letters to Peregrinus are some of my favorite things I read each month.
In times when I’m seeking transition, I try to cut out the noise. This summer that means taking a break from social media and doing a lot of writing on pages that no one else will see.
Anything else you want to share? ;)
Why yes! Here are a few other links of things I’ve loved reading or listening to lately.
The Year of Madeleine -- “Madeleine insisted on writing and she insisted on raising her children. However, while she sees each as a holy calling, she does not romanticize the challenges of either one.”
I shared some of my feelings I wrote about in this newsletter with my friend Rachel Nevergall last month. Then last week she sent me this article with the subject line “Thought of you”. And that’s when I knew she was someone worth sharing with. If you like my writing, I think you’ll really like Rachel’s. She’s a great storyteller on Instagram and if you like the creativity of homemade cocktails she has you covered there too. Oh, and her recent newsletter was all about being in-between, because we really are kindred spirits.
Jen Hatmaker’s new podcast series is For the Love of Transitions, so it was a no-brainer to share with you. The first two have been really, really good.
Finally, this newsletter is hitting your inbox on Juneteenth. My friend Kristen shared a message about this holiday with our church that I also wanted to share with you.
Just want to say this is beautiful in every way! Thanks for writing it.