Unwritten
“This doesn’t feel like the last day of school!” and “How do you feel about your last day of school?” were two phrases I heard a lot these past few days. And I answered honestly. “No, it doesn’t quite feel like the last day of school!” And “It feels the same as any other year.”
Which was mostly true, but far more tinged with bittersweet. My sweet students: looking for excuses to spend more time in my office, offering to help me clean old graduation invitations off of the wall, or sorting music, or just sitting there chatting. My colleagues: looking sad or tearing up when we’d see one another, more hugs, more “you’re going to be missed”. Letters, cards, gifts paired well with the hugs.
The last days also coincided with the tragedy of the death of one of my co-workers children, and a past student of mine. So mixed in with all of these lasts was a wake, a vigil, a funeral to provide music for—to offer comfort in the best way I can—through music. It became hard to tell what the mourning was for: the ending of my chapter? The grief of a young life lost far too soon? Feeling the palpable grief of another mother? For all of it—this tangled, messy life?
But amidst all of that mourning was reminders about why this 14-year-long chapter was wonderful: supportive colleagues, students showing up the first day of summer to form an Honor Guard for the family’s funeral procession, the love and feel of a family that we regularly felt. The beauty in the breaking, you could say.
In the end, the building and spaces were not difficult to walk away from. Turning in my keys did not hurt my heart. Bittersweet, yes, but not hard.
But leaving the people, my students and colleagues, who I have shared these good and hard times with, that’s what was hard. It feels so final, but in reality, it is just changing. Life will just be different. Change can be hard, but it’s often just uncomfortable.
The seniors this year decided to sing “Unwritten” by Natasha Bedingfield at Commencement, largely because they got to sing it their freshman year, and it stuck with them. The text is perfect for anyone starting a new chapter, as seniors do when leaving high school.
““Staring at the blank page before you, open up the dirty window, let the sun illuminate the words that you could not find. Reaching for something in the distance, so close you could almost taste it. Feel the rain in your skin. No one else can feel it for you, only you can let it in. No one else can speak the words on your lips. Drench yourself in words unspoken, live your life with arms wide open. Today is where your book begins, the rest is still unwritten.””
The truth is I’m very excited for this next chapter, this blank page that has yet to be fully illuminated. There are dreams to be realized, life to be lived, and getting to prioritize my children, my self and my health will be so incredibly worthwhile.
I will look back on the vast majority of the past 14 years with great fondness and nostalgia, but I think, and hope, the best is yet to come. The rest is still, as they sang, Unwritten.
