Tag: vacations

Summer Isn’t Just For Vacation

Posted on August 11, 2015 by Jennifer Wolfe

Summer vacation is almost here – teachers- are you dreaming about your summer vacation yet?

Growing. Trusting. Dreaming (big). Discovering. Feeling alive. Blooming.

The verbs jump from the calendar as I turn the page to August. Yes, yes, yes! Kelly Rae Roberts may not be a classroom teacher, but her artwork aligns with exactly what I’m feeling this month as I transition away from my only school-free days (July) and into a month of endings, movement, preparation and goodbyes.

Summer vacation is a teacher’s curse and blessing, all wrapped up in one big present you’re not always sure you want to open. For teachers, summer isn’t just for vacation.

I’ve always lived by the school calendar; I’ve never had a ‘real’ job that wasn’t in education, and I mark the passing of time by the start and end of the academic year. January may be the time for most people to make new year’s resolutions, to reflect and reminisce and plan and prepare, but for teachers, that happens as the August days sizzle, the vacations are in the rear-view mirror and the summer mornings still offer time for quiet contemplation.

Since my first official teaching year started in 1991, August has been bittersweet; the slowness of hot July days or travel to exciting locations has dwindled into something more real. The teacher dreams begin, so familiar yet absurd; not being able to find my classroom, suddenly teaching Spanish, or being unable to literally see my students due to the reconfigured classroom and the complete classroom chaos caused by custodians insisting on vacuuming in the middle of class to prepare for the ‘dress rehearsal’ haunt my sleep. The summer vacationto-do list, looking so ambitious and completely possible in mid-June, now is merely a half completed reminder of all I didn’t do. I quickly count down the ‘free’ days I have left, knowing that most of them will be consumed with lesson planning and classroom cleaning and meetings and meetings and more meetings, until one day the alarm will scream and I’m back in the rhythm of school.

At the risk of sounding ungrateful for the summertime freedom, I am not – without the unscheduled days of July, I’m not sure I could have sustained this job for two decades. After nine months of living by school bells that tell me when to talk, when to move, when to pee and when to eat, the endless moments of absolutely no expectation are sheer bliss.

They are the days I grow and dream, the hours I discover myself again away from my ‘teacher’ persona. They are the moments for my children, for me, for feeling alive and allowing my passions to bloom outside of the classroom. Summer mornings spent digging in the dirt of my garden, righting the chaos I allowed to grow forth in the spring, rejuvenate my spirit. Hiking seaside trails with my children, the wind on my face and the sun on my shoulders, restores my connection to the world. Baking bread and cookies and creating a meal full of love, my daughter by my side, deepen my relationships.

Summer vacation squashes into six to eight weeks of restoration, moments of anticipation that began last October. That’s when the back-to-school adrenaline usually wears off (for me and the students) and I begin making my ‘that-can-wait-til-vacation’ list, tasks that require more concentration/dedication/money/brain power than the weekends from September to June offer. Teaching isn’t just a 7-3 kind of a job, after all.

So as I turn the calendar one more page, I’m struggling with what-has-yet-to-be-done. The to-do list sits half completed. The days with my girl dwindle before she moves away again, and I find myself choosing between her and it. I know the moments are precious; I know that the filing can wait. I trust that I still have growing and dreaming and discovering to do.

Summer isn’t just for vacation. Summer is for feeling alive, for blooming back into me.

Jennifer Wolfe

Jennifer Wolfe, a writer-teacher-mom, is dedicated to finding the extraordinary in the ordinary moments of life by thinking deeply, loving fiercely, and teaching audaciously. Jennifer is a Google Certified Educator, Hyperdoc fanatic, and a voracious reader. Read her stories on her blog, mamawolfe, and grab free copies of her teaching and parenting resources.

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Simplify My Life

Posted on August 14, 2012 by Jennifer Wolfe

It was June, and the world smelled of roses. The sunshine was like powdered gold over the grassy hillside.

~Maud Hart Lovelace, Betsy-Tacy and Tib, 1941

As summer winds to a close I’m getting that fluttering feeling again-anyone involved with education knows what I’m talking about. Students, teachers, parents – we all feel it.

If you’re a student, it’s that butterflies-kind of feeling that sets your body trembling at the thought of one last day at the pool, one more night hanging out under the streetlight on your block, and the last time you can sleep in as late as you want without worrying about all your homework, studying, or chores that need to be done.

If you’re a teacher like me, well, it’s something similar, but a bit different. It’s that panicky-kind of feeling at the thought of the to-do list still undone, the novels not quite finished, the essays you want to write instead of grade, and the last time you can wake up early and do exactly what you want to do without worrying about all your students, your grading, or chores that need to be done.

If you’re a parent, it could be a mixed bag. It’s that sorrowful feeling of days gone by, kids who’ve grown up before your eyes. It’s wishing you had one more night to just cuddle instead of going to bed early, and the day doesn’t operate on a schedule.

Or I suppose you could be excited to have your kids out of the house and let someone else deal with them – no more arguing over TV time, restocking the fridge every other day, or groaning when your teen doesn’t wake up until the day is half over.

Summer is supposed to simplify my life. I want June again. The smell of roses, the sun powdered gold. Rolling dizzily down the grassy slopes, never worried about what was at the end. The possibilities.

You remember what it was like, right? It WAS simple then.

Did it thrill you to go ‘back-to-school’ shopping, buying new Keds and a backpack ready to organize your way to straight As?

Do you remember choosing your new binder, notebooks, and a pencil box, if you were lucky?

Did you agonize over the Pee-Chee folder versus the one with the puppies, or the Scooby-Doo lunchbox over a paper sack?

I wish it were this simple for me now.

The teacher in me doesn’t know how to operate on any other type of calendar-if September came and I wasn’t in a classroom I think my world would spin off its axis.

The parent in me doesn’t want to lose the priceless minutes I have just being a mom-not a worker, or a helper, or the one responsible for anyone else’s kids. Just mine.

Summer is supposed to simplify my life.

Instead, I feel torn in half.

Jennifer Wolfe

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Flying Alone

Posted on February 23, 2012 by Jennifer Wolfe

Last week I did something new. It wasn’t as delicious as trying a new flavor of ice cream, or as adventurous as flying down a zip line. It wasn’t as bold as a new hair color, or as daring as quitting my job.

Last week I flew alone. Solo. No friends, no kids, no spouse, no colleagues. Just me, my overstuffed suitcase and a carry-on bag full of papers to grade, books to read, and stories to write.

Flying alone meant trying something new. I could get myself out of the house quickly because all I had to worry about was me. It meant that for the first time in a very long time I didn’t forget a thing.

Flying alone meant it didn’t matter where I stood in the boarding line because it was just me. I wasn’t concerned about entertaining anyone, or making sure I was close to the window or the bathroom. It meant I could be the very last person aboard because I had a confirmed seat and I didn’t need overhead luggage space.

Flying alone meant I wasn’t worried about sitting next to a chatterbox or a screaming baby-I had my earphones, my iPod, and a book to bury my face in. I didn’t even have to check who was sitting in front or behind me, just in case they received an accidental kick in the seatback or a quick seat recline in the face.

Flying alone meant I could actually watch the entire movie from beginning to end without interruption. My tray table only had my drink on it, and I didn’t worry about elbows flying over to spill it. It meant could read my book, write an article and listen to music for five glorious hours. I only had to pack the snacks that I liked, and didn’t have to ration them. And if it wasn’t 7:00 a.m. I could have even indulged in a cocktail without guilt.

Flying alone meant that in Dulles airport I didn’t have to take small companions straight to the bathroom, or wait for anyone to catch up with me. It meant that I actually had one hand free to maneuver through the shuttle, and arrived first to the baggage claim area. And when my luggage came off the carousel, I was completely free.

Flying alone meant that the next moves were all mine. I got to choose what I ate, where I went, and how I got there. It meant I could browse the gift shop and the bookstore for as long as I wanted.

Flying alone also meant that I didn’t have a hand to hold on take-off and landing, or anyone to watch my bags while I went to the newsstand. It meant that I had to eat lunch alone, and keep my thoughts to myself.

Flying alone also meant that I didn’t have anyone to ask for advice or opinions. I had to decide which shuttle to use, and how much to tip the driver. It meant that I didn’t have anyone to exclaim to as I spied the Pentagon or crossed the Potomacfor the first time.

Flying alone meant that I had a lot of time to myself to think. I had to wonder what my family was doing, and if they got to school on time. It meant that I couldn’t see their faces as they raced down the ski course or before they fell asleep.

Flying alone made me realize how much I wished I wasn’t flying alone. It meant that I missed my family.

Next time, I’ll take a kid or two with me.

Jennifer Wolfe

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Friday Photo: Back to the Future

Posted on February 10, 2012 by Jennifer Wolfe

Some days I wish for that machine from ‘Back To The Future’ – the one where I could climb in and time travel backwards. In the movie, Marty McFly found himself thirty years back in 1955, smack in the middle of his parent’s romance.

Mainly, I’d travel back to beautiful places I’ve been in my life. I’d love the convenience of pushing a button and finding myself in a new location. If I felt like great adventures, I’d go to Nicaragua. For youthful abandon, I’d wake up in a hostel in Amsterdam. Missing my childhood pen pal? I’d go back to Yorkshire, England. Nostalgia for family who have passed on would send me back to Sherman Oaks, California. A yearning for academic stimulation would find me in Berkeley.

Today I want to jump in with Marty and travel back to the place where generations of my family have landed before me. I want to walk on the soft white sand towards the lone Cyprus. I want to climb over to Bird Rock and peek into the Whaler’s Cabin at Point Lobos. I want to climb Hawk Tower and stare into the Pacific, imagining Jeffer’s view from the early 1900s. I want to watch my babies bury themselves in the sand of the Bird Sanctuary Beach and giggle as they wiggle their toes free.

Then tomorrow I’ll be back in 2012, immersed in life as I know it today. I’ll be driving from mountain to mountain, cheering my children as they catapult down the ski run. I’ll be packing lunches and loading skis, grading papers and doing laundry, unloading groceries and washing dishes.

But just for today, could you open the door and let me have a moment just for me?

Jennifer Wolfe

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Uncovered Beauty

Posted on January 4, 2012 by Jennifer Wolfe

At this time last year, I was drowning in snow. Every weekend I slogged, dragged, shoveled, pushed and slipped my way around the Sierras during a record setting snowfall season. Snow was the center of every conversation and the focus of every day. I grumbled, complained and wished it would just go away.

This winter, however, is a completely different story. Dirt lines the path to our cabin, and rocks and trees jut out of the mountainside. Lack of snow is the topic of every conversation now, and the gloom and doom its absence brings to our local ski resort and mountain communities. Everyone whines and gripes and wishes it would come back.

As I spent another afternoon in the lodge, preferring a table and chair to skiing in snow that sticks like butter, I decided I needed to reframe my outlook and headed outside. The lack of snow makes taking a walk much easier than ever, and as I headed away from the lodge and out of the parking lodge, I found myself breathing more deeply and seeing things I had never noticed before.

Snow does a good job of covering things up. It hides imperfections, blankets trash, and mulches out the summer debris. Everything small disappears, covered by something so soft, pure, and beautiful that most people don’t even notice what is missing.

Everything has changed this year. Nothing is hidden. The baby conifers don’t have to struggle to stay upright. The mule ear leaves, brown and withered, line the sledding hillside. The rocky peaks stand majestic and sharp, and the creeks and riverbeds glow green and mossy.

Wandering down a path I had never seen before, I suddenly realized the new beauty that surrounded me. What last year was shrouded in white, today gleams rich with earthy greens, browns and greys. I began to think about all that I had missed last year, and how much there was to see with this reframed perspective. Leaving the path to go deeper into the forest I stopped, inhaled, and looked back at the mountain. It began to snow.

Instinctively I turned towards the warmth of the lodge, then paused, and continued down the road. Once uncovered, I wasn’t going to miss this chance for beauty.

It’s all in how you look at it.

Jennifer Wolfe

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