The Rush of a School Day Juxtaposed with the Ease of Summer: A Stream-of-Consciousness

Early morning alarm. Darkness. I wake to the sound of it, heavy and unwelcome, only to be thrust into a hallway already filling with voices, sharp and rising.

Summer sunlight. It spills across the floor. I stretch, breathe in quiet, and ease into a slow morning with a warm cup of coffee cupped in my hands.

The bell rings. Students pour in—some smiling, some half-asleep. I never know what kind of day it will be until I feel the chemistry shift. My mood mixes with twenty(ish) teenage energies.

The house is silent. Everyone’s off to work. I savor it, move to my muse room, fingers finding their place on my laptop keyboard. I lean into the quiet pulse of inspiration.

Bright minds, buzzing with possibility or resistance. I’m on now. Standing at the front of the room, most eyes are on me–daring me to teach, to move them, to matter. More bells usher one group out and another in. Where did I leave off yesterday?

The words flow like a small miracle. Whether 500 or 2,000, I type them out, following the muse, adrenaline rushing. I make a note of where to begin again tomorrow; there are always new ideas to explore.

Lunch is a blur: 25 minutes sandwiched in the middle of a class. I sit with colleagues, trade weary smiles and snippets of frustration. We talk teacher problems, weigh solutions. We distract ourselves with weekend anecdotes. We live for Fridays (countdowns begin each Monday).

In summer, the fridge is full of choices; for example, juicy strawberries, crisp lettuce, fragrant mint–fresh from our garden. I can follow a whim or meet a friend for lunch. We talk about our flowers, new recipes, the books we’re reading, updates on family, vacation plans. The conversation is always easy. We are content. Calm.

Multitasking is a teacher’s way of being. Always thinking in threes or fours—papers to grade, students to support, parents to call, admins to answer, mandates to meet, lessons to plan…

But the afternoon is mine now. I do what I can’t do from August to June. I read. I walk. I swim. I meditate. I tackle the project I’ve been putting off. However I spend it, this time feels sacred. Possibilities are endless.

Every school day ends with a new list of tasks waiting to be tackled. I jot them down in my journal, knowing a teacher’s work is never truly finished (at least not until summer). Even when I manage to cross off everything, a fresh list emerges, beckoning me.

Summer dinners come easy. They’re spontaneous, layered with flavor and time. Sometimes, we pack a meal and take it to the boat. There, we eat while drifting. Waves lapping, the sun melting into the sea, the hush of the world wrapping around us. This is summer.

The school year stretches me, tests me, keeps me moving. Summer restores me, reminds me of who I am when I am still.

And in the space between the two, I find myself whole.