Leaving Perspectives

"I just can't imagine doing this work without you."

This is a comment I've heard a lot these past few weeks as the end of my teaching career approaches. I haven't figured out how to respond to such a comment. Inside I'm thinking, "I can imagine it!" but I know this would be perceived as harsh, as a slam against the person who said it. In actuality, my comment is more about my ability to see myself somewhere else, doing something else and has no reflection whatsoever on the person who is stating how much they will miss me.

Often I stumble out with something clumsy like "You'll be fine" or "It's not like we won't see each other." An awkward silence lands in the middle of the conversation after such comments, and I never know what to do with that silence either.

It happened again yesterday. We took the students on our annual end-of-the-year visit to Peggy at her horse farm. This field trip is a part of the reflection we ask the girls to do before we send them off to summer vacation and eventually to their 6th grade year.

The weather was perfect yesterday and the girls had a great time grooming horses, braiding their manes, and working with the horses in the arena with Peggy. At lunch, I snuck into the kitchen to grab another homemade cookie and to visit with Peggy who was sipping soup separate from the energy of the giddy girls. Nini, my teaching partner was there as well as Trina the art teacher who comes on the trip every year.

Peggy started, "I can't imagine your not being here next year."

"Me either," chimed in Nini who is very nervous about making her own way at the school without me.

"Yeah, it just won't be the same at school either," added Trina.

I stood mute, unable to say anything to soothe them. We moved on in our conversation, but on the way home I was uncertain why this comment is so difficult for me.

Today we went for a walk with our good friends Jeanne and Lisa and their two girls. Jeanne, like me, is often restless and has changed her job more in the six years that I've known her than I have in my lifetime. In the past, we've talked a lot about how people react to our leaving and so I told Jeanne about my conundrum.

"How would you respond?" I asked.

"It's tough, isn't it," she said. "No one who says it really sees that it's all about them and not about you."

"Exactly," I agreed. "I'd rather they say, 'That's so exciting!' but instead I'm left feeling guilty for making them feel bad."

"My favorite comment was 'We're going to miss you.' I would have preferred 'I'm going to miss you.' It would feel more genuine."

I know people are just letting me know they like me and that they respect me. I know people are really going to miss my daily presence in their lives, but I don't see myself as leaving them. I see myself as moving onto something different, something away from a school and the teaching of children. When I think of leaving I don't mourn who I won't see. In fact, it never really occurs to me because I'm assuming we'll stay in touch or at least, I'll stay in touch with those people who've meant a lot to me.

"I guess you just have to say," Jeanne continued, "'I imagine it will be different for you' and just acknowledge their difficulty with it."

It's not that I won't miss teaching. It's not that I won't miss most of my co-workers (dare I say not all of them) or the students or the school, but I'm at a point where when I think of them -- when I think of Trina or Peggy or Nini -- I think about all the work it takes to do what I've done for the past 22 years. My well is dry. To move on, to re-energize with a new direction feels exciting and exhilarating. To stay, to even think about staying, feels exhausting and overwhelming. All those people represent that for me and so leaving that, not them, but THAT feels like a relief not a sadness.

Maybe that should be my response: "Yeah, I imagine it will be difficult at first, but I'm really excited to know all of you in a different way. Not as co-workers and colleagues, but as friends."

The other thing I find interesting about leaving something I've done for so long, something everyone associates me with is that now everyone wants to fill my time.

"You could go with us to the Cedar River Watershed," Nini announced the other day. "We have lots of field trips you could help with and then we could have access to your expertise."

Peggy even invited me to come out to the farm and work with her during the days the schools are there working with the horses.

Ann even has me cleaning and cooking next year.

Carrie, a professor we work with at school from the University of Washington already contracted me for 40 hours worth of work this summer.

Not only do I have to learn how to respond to people saying they can't imagine not working with me, but I must also learn to say "no, thank you, my schedule is full."

Ann's been hinting that something will be "happening" at the end of the year -- a goodbye party or something -- and that it is a surprise. She's terrible with surprises, but she keeps trying to pin down my schedule in a way that she normally never would. "What time do you finish on Friday? What are you doing Thursday night?"

I know it's all a compliment. I know I've had a positive influence on peoples' lives. And I know I should learn to let them voice their loss, let them celebrate the goodbye how they need to celebrate it, but it's not the leaving I'll be celebrating. Rather it will be the beginning, the arriving of the next adventure in my life.

I guess others don't want to celebrate that yet, so I shall clumsily move through these next few weeks and practice the art of validating the feelings of others and keeping my schedule uncrowded enough to pursue my own interests and not the interests of others.

Every day is a lesson, isn't it?