I'm teaching right now. Sort of. I'm sitting on the grass with my students and they have their laptops open, writing. The sun's setting, light coming through the trees and bouncing off a big map of the school, so that every time I look up it blinds me. The students are lovely here, bent over their keyboards, young brows furrowed. Can I say their young brows are furrowed? They are.
It's not quite as romantic as it sounds. I mean, it's lovely out here, and the sun is well-deserved after an astonishingly gloomy summer. But I think I'm moving back into my depression, old friend. It's arrived fiercely in the last few days, leveled me. It feels shameful. I'm working on kicking it out the door, but who knows how long that could take.
The students and I have had a semi-painful discussion about poetry, in which I had to explain why it's not true that "there's no wrong answer." If you can't support it with the text, folks, it doesn't really exist. I wish that were true: that there are no wrong answers. I wish I could tell them that and smile and nod when they say something absurd. But there are so many wrong answers it makes me ache.
In non-achey news, we found a place to live. In Waltham. Which means we have to leave our ward, but we'll have more money, and we'll be close to the hip/happening Moody street. We'll see if we're hip and happening.
Must go. The chickens are restless. Time to teach again.