“You should go home to your hermitage; it is inside you. Close the doors, light the fire, and make it cozy again. That is what I call ‘taking refuge in the island of self.’ If you don’t go home to yourself, you continue to lose yourself. You destroy yourself and you destroy people around you, even if you have goodwill and want to do something to help. That is why the practice of going home to the island of self is so important. No one can take your true home away.”
~ Thich Nhat Hahn

I am such a homebody. I LOVE being in my house all day, all night; honestly, I could stay at home for weeks. Months, maybe.

I recently returned from a stay at my daughter’s new home in Salt Lake City. This is her third year living there, her first summer completely living away from home. Well, our home anyways.

We spent our days puttering around her new apartment, adjusting furniture, picking up little items that she needed to make it feel like home – things like an ironing board, some new spatulas, decorative baskets and cushions for her dining room chairs.

All the while, I was thinking about how I could make it cozy for her, how I could make it feel as much as possible like the home she left behind in California.

Arriving at her home

I certainly tread carefully. I respect the fact that she wants things the way that she wants them, and that if I rearrange while she’s at work she might come home a bit frustrated.

She didn’t seem too frustrated when I cleaned her bathroom, mopped her kitchen floors and vacuumed her living room. She didn’t get angry when I stocked her fridge and freezer with goodies from Trader Joes, or when I froze fresh scones or double chocolate espresso cookie balls, either.

We went on this way for a week; me trying to contain my frantic craziness about getting her set up before I knew I had to leave, and her checking off items on her to-do and to-buy lists. We had a familiar rhythm going, just like at home. I’d make the coffee and her breakfast, and she’d go off to one of her jobs most of the mornings. We’d have some afternoon time together, and then she’d head to her second job. In between seeing her, I’d walk the neighborhood, shop, read, cook, and tidy her home. It felt good to see her more and more settled every day. And for me, it comforted me to know that together we were creating a space for her to seek refuge.

All that time, I knew I would be leaving her alone for the first time in her life. Seriously alone. No roommate, no boyfriend. Most of her local friends are working or traveling all summer, leaving her with a huge amount of time to, as Thich Nhat Hahn says, “to go home to the island of self.”

I would have loved to scoop her up to drive across the desert with me, back to our home. I would know that she wouldn’t be lonely, or wondering what to cook for dinner-for-one. At home, I’d have my HGTV watching homie, my coffee drinking companion, and my constant walking companion. With her home, I wouldn’t lose the part of myself that I left in Salt Lake City, the part of myself that has been creating a home for her for twenty years.

This is one of the hard parts of parenting, the time when you have to let your child go it alone in order to learn about themselves. I know that if she doesn’t go home to herself, she will lose that part of her being that needs to learn that she is the one person she can always count on to take care of her.

I know that , as Thich Nhat Hahn says, without going home she will destroy herself and the people around you. I understand that even if I have goodwill and want to do something to help, the most beneficial act I can do is to close her front door behind me, throw my suitcase in the back of my car and drive away as the sun rises over the Wasatch Mountains.

No one can take her true home away; she’s learning that home is where the love is, and that love begins inside her own heart.

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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It’s always a minimum day schedule on the last day of school, making it super hard to get anything done (yes, they want us to teach up until the last bell), as well as to have a moment to breathe, to be present, to process what is going on.

The last day of school is about both endings and beginnings. It’s a celebration and a sniffle of what we’re leaving behind. It’s more than just hurry up, get inside, close the door, sign yearbooks and you’re off.

For me, the end of the school year is bittersweet. Even after 25 years of teaching middle school, I still have yet to leave the last day dry-eyed.

My classroom starts to feel like my home away from home, I guess.

Some years it’s worse than others. I’ve had years where the tears flowed from before the first bell even rang, until long after the kids (or most of them) left for their summer vacation.

This year was both usual and unusual.

This year the tears started at home, in my bathroom, when my friend Estherlyn texted me this photo of our boys at the end of 6th grade:

They were full of excitement, ready to tackle the adventure of ‘junior high’ for the next three years.

And now, three years later, my tears came as I thought of all the happiness, disappointment, joy, laughter and growth they’ve experienced. I thought of the classes and report cards and homework, the basketball games, the sleepovers and dances and the lunches in my room. I thought about how they’ve managed to stay close, and how much I would miss their faces next September.

And I thought of how they’ve grown in to young men and are so ready for 10th grade.

Not a great way to start a frantic day of goodbyes and thank yous.

I made it through most of my classes-they moved too fast to allow myself to sink into sadness. We had papers to collect, “The Diary of Anne Frank” to finish watching (yes, I do end the year with the Holocaust-but remember, Anne says, “No matter what, I still believe people are good at heart.” It’s uplifting, really).

I made it through the start of each class, thanking them for this community and for doing their best. I reminded my ‘kids’ of how hard they’ve worked, how their struggles have turned them into strong thinkers and readers and writers, and assured them that they were well prepared and ready for high school.

I think they believed me. I meant every word I said.

Except they don’t know the real reason I show a sad movie on the last day is another teacher trick for hiding my tears.

I received some beautiful notes and thank yous, some cookies and  gift cards and hugs. I could feel the tears right there, but I was holding it together. Bell rings, we talk, we watch, bell rings, they go. It’s like a well oiled machine.

And then the last period of the day was upon me, my struggling readers who I’ve encouraged and cheered and danced with (can you do the nae-nae? I can!) and  read with and tried to help them get to grade level. These kids hold such a special place in my heart. The tears are close…but in this class, we must celebrate! Cue Selena and dance!

And then suddenly the 9th graders started streaming in from the room across the hall. Kids I’d known since kindergarten, when their hair was neatly combed and backpacks proudly balanced on their shoulders. Kids that had spent the last three years eating lunch in my room, loving having a place to call ‘home’.

They handed me a thank you card, and I made the mistake of opening it in front of them. You see, when teachers don’t open gifts in front of their students there’s a reason – it makes them cry. And it’s usually an ugly cry, and the kids usually don’t know what to do.

Cue ugly cry.

The card said ‘thanks for always letting us stay in your room (or at your house)’ and ‘you’re like a second mom to me’ and ‘without you our lunches wouldn’t have been nowhere near as great as they were’.

I honestly had no idea it meant so much to them.

And somewhere in there the last bell rang, we watched them stream out into summer and I closed the door on the last day of school. The quiet was eerie. The room was a mess. I breathed deeply.

And the door burst open.

A line of 11 gangly, sweaty, smiling 9th graders entered one by one, big arms wrapping around me. The tears streamed all over again with loose abandon. There was no card or cookies, just huge, grateful smiles covering up a bit of nervousness, as one by one they piled in and said thanks, my son at the end of the line.

“Thanks for having such great friends, Cam,” I whispered as he hugged me, his head towering over mine.

The next thing I knew it was lollipops and selfies and sharing moments from the last three years.

They didn’t leave. I didn’t want them to leave. None of us quite knew what to do. I wondered if they knew how much they mean to me – how much joy they brought when they were tiny little 7th graders watching the big kids with wonder in their eyes. Do they know the joy I felt when Cam was away at boarding school in 8th grade, and they still came to my room every day? I wonder if they felt the gratitude I had each lunchtime when they would flop their big 9th grade bodies on my beanbags, pull out their food and homework and Tech Decks and just be themselves?

And suddenly, the hugs started again. The tears, the smiles, the joy oozing up from inside.

The last day of school isn’t only the final day of classes – it’s the final day of this community, this place of being together. This home away from home.

This is why I teach. This is why I’ll be back again next year.

This is why they call me mamawolfe.

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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This has been a year of change – a year of change at home, at work, in my writing. I’ve watched my home transform from a busy hive of teenage girls and boys – ski racers and pole vaulters and children I’ve witnessed transform from kindergarten to graduation – to a place of quiet, a place where I find myself with much of the extra time I always dreamed of.

I’ve watched my daughter grow and blossom from afar, hoping to catch a glimpse on Instagram or Snapchat as she lives her dreams hundreds of miles away, savoring every image I see of her as she tackles college like she took on a ski course.

I’ve watched my son rest and heal and grow taller and stronger, towering above me as he faces his challenges head on every day, savoring each day we are together rather than missing his absence.

I’ve watched my classroom evolve with new technology, new students from all over the world, and new classes that have pushed me to intense levels of simultaneous exhaustion and joy, savoring each time I see the smile on their faces as they find their confidence.

I’ve watched my writing transform, seen my website grow and blossom and become more beautiful than ever before. I’ve watched my audience change, witnessed my words reach out into the universe – infuriating some, and soothing others – savoring every opportunity I have to connect.

And as I’ve learned with nineteen years of motherhood, I’ve learned to savor every moment. I’m training myself to be present, to notice, to look up, to feel gratitude. I’ve used Instagram to record #365gratitude – sharing a moment each day to savor the ordinary.

So when Midlife Boulevard asked for writing about motherhood, and working moms, I knew just what to submit – and I’m happy to share it with you here, today. My story about savoring every little bit is featured today – you can read it here – and while you’re on Midlife Boulevard, be sure to savor every little bit of their amazing content, too.

Motherhood Is Meant To Be Savored originally appeared here on mamawolfe.

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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“…the border between the Inside and the Outside wasn’t as impermeable as she liked to believe,

and he knew that sooner or later, the Outside would want in.”

~from If I Fall, If I Die by Michael Christie

Today I planted tulips and pansies Outside, yanking out the weeds and cutting back debris I’d left since August. It was wet and grey and the grass came out in clumps, snuff-colored soil and worms clinging to the roots. This is optimistic, I think, planning for the spring. Thinking someday it will be pink and purple and white and alive. It’s green and lush right now, but nothing is really growing. It’s a ruse, a fake, it’s just a cover crop.

Sirens pierce through the bird song. I quickly inventory, wondering if you’re Outside. Are they screaming in your direction? They cannot be, they will not be, they are NOT coming for you.

Do you know I check on you every morning, first thing as the coffee brews? Usually your shoulders need covering, and sometimes as I pull the striped duvet over your shoulder, you smile. In that moment, in that smile I see the real you, the child I know will be ready for Outside soon. I pick up a damp towel and a dirty juice glass and click the door shut behind me. Exhale.  You’re Inside, it’s quiet, and we’re safe.

I walk in her room, too. I’m not sure why I do – she’s never there. It’s cold and white and full of a starkness that only happens when someone doesn’t live there anymore. I pull the shades open, sigh and run my hand along her dresser, my fingertips making faint lines in the dust. She’s Outside now, out of my control, where I want her to be and where I want her to leave. But the years are minutes, I scream to the silence.

You tell me you want more independence, you want me to trust you. You want to go Outside until after dark. You want to pick up your skateboard and throw your house key in your pocket and skate away with the homemade wax you made in my best stainless steel pan…and I’m supposed to be OK with that. I’m supposed to say yes, go meet your new friends and your new girl and just be careful, I whisper to you as you leave. Be careful, Outside.

This won’t last forever, I remind myself, these moments when life pushes along and I sometimes chase after it. These years that are really moments, these moments that hold my breath and make me pause midway through and wonder if this is the last time…

It’s getting late and I need to think of something to teach tomorrow – Steinbeck, The Pearl, and Kino who thinks all his dreams will come true now that he’s found the Pearl of the World and then the baby dies. He thought he had it all – for a moment. Yes, years are minutes, Kino. Stay Inside.

She calls to tell me she loves her Avalanche class, mentions she’ll be skiing out of bounds this weekend. But don’t worry, Mom, she says. I’m with my group. She’ll click on her skis just like Bryce and Ronnie and please don’t go Outside, I silently scream, please don’t slide down, buried with a smile on your face like they did…

I shower and  slip into my new fleece jammies, soft and fresh from the dryer, and walk down the stairs. You laugh when you see me and tell me that’s a whole lot of leopard. That you read somewhere that women my age shouldn’t be seen Outside in leopard – certainly not head to toe.

But I’m Inside, I reply. I’m safe. No one can see me Inside here.

I hear your key in the door. It’s dusk now, and you’re Inside. Your cheeks are glowing and your eyes sparkle as you explain all about your new tricks, how you’re learning and persistent and you’re better than you were before you broke your leg, better than that August morning I texted you to be safe Outside and you said you would.

But you weren’t.

This post was inspired by the novel If I Fall, If I Die by Michael Christie,about a boy who’s never been outside, thanks to his mother’s agoraphobia, but ventures outside in order to solve a mystery. Join From Left to Write on January 22nd as we discuss If I Fall, If I Die. As a member, I received a copy of the book for review purposes.

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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This Place We Call Home

This place we call home is
Magical,
Sparkly
Majestic
Tranquilizing

This place welcomes them
Home
Year after year
For decades
Sometimes with arms that change
Sometimes that grasp too tightly
Unsure when to let go
There to heal

This place we call home
Scented with pine, cinnamon
Melting wax
A balm redolent of family
And the essence of hard work

This place  showers all who enter
With possibility
And hope
Cleansing the exterior
Revealing
A mantra of self-confidence
And absolute belief in the power of
The mind and body
To learn
Heal
And love

This place
This mountain
This home

Welcome
Let us embrace
Nice to see you again, it cautiously whispers
I’m home

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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