Closing in on some endings this week – it’s May, which means another school year is coming to a close, and I just finished reading To Kill A Mockingbird with my seventh graders. This is bittersweet as I will not be teaching 7th graders anymore next year, which means no more Scout and Atticus and no more Shakespeare, either. (Insert sad face emoji here.) The end of my teaching career is also creeping nearer; two years from now, I’ll be packing up my classroom for good. (Insert excited emoji here.)
Some writing things inched their way toward completion as well. I finally finished a new poetry book review. I love writing reviews, and I have one more chapbook review to get done before I take a break to work only on my own poems this summer. (Insert teeth clenching emoji here.) Which means my “I cannot write anymore and don’t know if I can do this” slump has also reached a natural end. Thank goodness for that. And that, in a way, is its own beginning. I am writing new poems, even sending them out into the world. Which is a little like stuffing intimate messages into bottles and tossing them into the ocean, hoping someone will discover them and rescue you from the desert island of your own brain. (Insert palm tree emoji here.)
Now I’m beginning to question writing this post. Endings and beginnings are a part of everything, right? Why are they on my mind? Maybe it’s the time of year. As a teacher, late May is both a ending and a beginning for me and has been since I started teaching in 1984. But it’s also the cycle of stressors versus comforts that has harnessed my attention in the last few weeks– the slow fade of some old friendships versus the lit wick of some new ones; the challenges of care-taking versus a surprise visit from my son for Mother’s Day; the late arrival of lovely spring weather versus the necessity of long-delayed yard work; the apathy and chaos of the workplace versus the slow, sweet comfort of my husband and my home.
I could quote Seneca here, (or the source most people know the line from, Semisonic’s “Closing Time”), the line about how every new start comes from the end of another. But I’ll go deep cuts instead. In one of my favorite old Jimmy Webb love songs (“All I Know”), Art Garfunkel’s pure tenor sings, “it’s a fine line between the darkness and the dawn.” A simple line to be sure. Nothing earth-shattering. But this line works for beginnings and endings. A door has to close to open. You can’t be happy if you’ve never been sad. So I suppose this is now the end of this post. But it could be the beginning of something else. It’s a fine line – one never knows.