Newspaper classroom. The massive whitebaord in the front of the room is a graffittied scrawl of colorful student handwriting. Story ideas for the last cycle. The final round of story ideas for the underclassmen because the seniors will be graduating in 31 days. My final round of story ideas because I will be transitioning out of the newspaper class this May.

The transition is happening. The new teacher has been selected (and she’s seriously amazing). I’ve been handing over lesson plans, information, supplies, gear, ideas. I’ve been trying not to hand down my guilt, my sense of shame that I didn’t do everything I aspired to. I tried. God knows I tried. I built a class on good intentions.

And it worked in so many ways. Two rounds of trophy class. A disqualification that still stings but my honor was not up for question. And a first class award. We succeeded.

We earned national recognition. We’ve been celebrated by our county and supported by our community. We’ve done incredibly well….

Comma but. I could have done more. I wish I had.

Today is the first round of last moments. Technically, yesterday should have been that for me. But the new teacher handled our last cycle’s post mortem so that doesn’t count. But today. Staff meeting with story prep. Deadlines being assigned. This is my last round. Next year, no staff meetings. No listening to students brainstorming ideas. No negotiating deadlines.

I am ready for this change. Since my first day, I knew that I was not the right person for this job. I had the writing talent. I had the ideas. But I don’t speak teen. And I’m intense with my work ethic. Almost a do or die work ethic. Which doesn’t work well when my unpaid staffers are teenagers who are taking classes, participating in extra curricular activities, working part time jobs, taking care of family members, or just trying to live.

Teen speak is becoming an increasingly perplexing language. “Fire” “Slay” confuse me. Apparently, those are good terms. Being cooked can be both good and bad. Locked in makese sense. And then the hand gestures. The pinched finger tips that are apparently another way of showing love or flashing a heart.

And let’s not get me started on the effervescent, ever changing trends that are set by a social media platform that I refuse to watch.

But I was the right person for the job. I helped institute elevated writing expectations. Our photography shifted from dead hallway photos to images saturated with action and emotion. We pushed forward and tried to tackle so much more than I had envisioned.

I plant lush imaginary forests and see them as reality. I forget to see the trees though. I forget to nourish the trees. And, sometimes, the forest gets hit by a wildfire. Or the trees’ growth is stunted. Or the trees explode into massive redwoods that are so tall they have their own ecosystems in their upper canopies.

I am nearing the edge of my forest. The path is widening and easing into soft soil littered with pine needles. I am shifting into a new-old, somewhat familiar terrain. Purple heather moors? Maybe a pine forest with high topped trees so I can relish the sound of the wind shirring through the soft needled tops. Maybe a glacial lake studded with boulders?

The future is lush with opportunity. And I have my berry bucket ready to be filled.