the glory years.

At book club the other night, I brought up the fact that I believe that I'm getting dumber and dumber as the days tick by. (I have no idea how this fit into the book club discussion at this point, but I do remember there was a certain flow to including it. Or... maybe I just blurted it out. I can't recall, so I'll give myself the benefit of the doubt.) I feel a fraction of what I used to be. I used to be smart, outgoing, witty. I knew what was going on in the world, and I'd have half-intelligent and thought-out opinions to spout out to anyone who queried me. Ask me about a current event now, and my response is most likely a blank, slightly-embarrassed stare, perhaps accompanied by a barely-audible eek. I used to be passionate about how things worked: how society functioned; how my relationships were functioning (Was everything playing out as intended? Was it fair? Was I getting an equal say in the matter and were people hearing me? Was everyone doing their share?) Now I'm just happy if I can scrape through yet another day, have offended no one, have not embarrassed myself, and have had provided food, safety and love for my family.

I used to have visions and dreams and passions about teaching music. And it was my life. My life is focused there no longer. But I still spend time doing it, and I think that knowing what I used to be is what has me aching for that experience again. And yet. I don't have the energy or time to get back to that cherished place. The place where my students adored me (and I them), where I felt like I knew exactly what I needed to do at all times, and could follow through with it. Capably. And receive accolades for my work, insight and talent. What if that was it? My glory years? Dan tells me, Jodi, get over it. That was then. You have to let go of that. It's done. Move on. The wise book-clubbers tell me, Oh no, Jodi, you'll rise again. You're a mom now. You're at home. You're supposed to go brain-dead. But you'll rise again. *deep breath in. and out.* I'll rise again. I like the sound of that. It gives hope and direction. Up. Onwards. Not that having two wonderful (yet taxing and demanding little boys) doesn't. But it's not something I do solely for me. Me, me, me. Mothers aren't supposed to be so selfish. But I'm more than a mother. And I think day after day, it's been easier and easier to forget that.

But I had a fantastically selfish moment this afternoon at school. It was a glimpse of perhaps returning to functioning society and opportunities. All year long, I have felt like a blip on my school's radar. No one has acknowledged myself or the music program, or any of our accomplishments. I took that as fair enough, since I was barely there and wasn't a part of the school's culture. I have almost no relationships built there. But today, after our Spring Concert last night, the principal gave me a talking to that restored a bit of faith in myself. Coming from a principal, I valued the positive, affirming words from her mouth (ok, who am I kidding, I could barely breathe hearing someone talk that way about me again.) But that she's an accomplished musician as well made me value her words even more as she had many specific and pointed things to say about myself, my abilities, my talents with the students, and what knowledge and skills that I have gifted them with this year. I almost floated out of her office. But it made me think, that, yes, given a chance, and a bit of encouragement, perhaps I will rise again. This isn't the end of smart, talented me yet.