The Stories we Tell

I don’t need to write it here to remember that this semester was hard.
But there, now it is written.
And as I am nearing the end, I find myself counting the blessings of the days.
Two cards today from students who both said thank you.
And I may never get another, but this will be enough.
The story I told myself was that I was wasting away. That I had nothing to give. That no one saw me.
And look, look at what they see.
Someone who opened both hands and poured out stars saying:
“You too are this, this magic, this chaos,
embrace it, we don’t get to stay very long.
Don’t you want to feel your blood? Don’t you want to share your heart?”
I am no great teacher. But I have been down steep slopes and up rocky mountain paths. I have been dehydrated and lost. I have been alone in heartache and because of that I can recognize it and lend a shoulder to those who need rest. And an ear to those who need to speak. And a hand to those who have fallen. And a light to those who are in the dark.
I offer only this question every day to them, over and over until it drills in their minds:
“Are you making this choice from fear or love?”
And it finally, finally is sinking in to my own brain.
I admit that I too am a student to this.
So perhaps I am a good teacher after all.