For the last three weeks, I have worked well beyond my normal hours. I’m not even talking about contract hours. Just normalcy. I’d come home, plop my teacher bag in my office, and vegetate for a brief time on the front porch. I watched many cars go past, maybe played some New York Times games. And then I’d head back into the office and dig out the color coded folders that represented my classes, pushed my reading glasses up my nose, and graded.

The nice thing is that I’m actually on top of my grading. My students aren’t (reasonably) complaining that they don’t know what their grade is or wondering when I’m going to return work with feedback. And I’m doing some of the best teaching in my career. I’ve had discussions in which every student participated. They write and edit daily and I’m shoving them out of their comfort zones. And I’ve even received some really nice compliments from the students. So woot for me.

But I’ve stopped writing. I dig into my office chair for several hours and go through papers and update grades and check emails and ensure that Google Classroom is updated and I drain my intellecual and creative reservoirs. I don’t want to write because I don’t have the mental strength to drag my fingers across the keyboard. Which only means that I’m not editing my writing which means that I’m not trying to submit anything and I’m still holding back because….

I took up easy grades today. Most of these are just spot checking and entering numbers into the computer. I have three class sets of quizzes that were given today and those are easy to grade too. I could easily knock everything out in three or so hours. But I’ve noticed that I have withdrawn from my family. I keep up with chores. Ish.

But I haven’t been exercising in the afternoon. And my Legos aren’t being built but are just migrating from table to table or desk to desk. And my journals are collecting dust.

Part of the reason that I’m throwing myself into the deepend is because I’m enjoying the classes and the rhythm of my work. I also think that I’m avoiding my mind, avoiding the memories that are tucked in there. Peter’s anniversary was twenty days ago. For the last three weeks, I work as long and as hard as I can. When the weekend arrives, though, the grief starts. I migrate through hours trying to push forward. I shove the vacuum cleaner across carpets, wash dishes, and fold laundry. I update lesson plans or try to read but can’t concentrate.

And I find my corner where I can weep and be alone because I want the quiet. I don’t know what form or type of comfort that I want because what I really want is impossible. So I wait for the moment when the grief passes and I reinitiate myself into living and wait until Monday when I can return to my routine and throw myself into work.

I wonder if I exhaust myself with work so that I don’t write. I have journal pages on Peter’s absence. I have poetry that analzyes my grieving. I have tried to invoke my inner Mary Oliver and find hope in nature. And I do. And I don’t. And I just live for a little longer.

So I’m rebalancing myself. I have another ninety minutes before I plan on going to bed. And I have two folders worth of grading waiting for my attention. I will talk to them tomorrow. Tomorrow is a good day. For now, I am going to write. I will write here. And then, maybe I’ll stretch my mind and try some poetic writing. And then there’s And This is How We Grow, my third Louiston novel that I have ideas around. Maybe the first hundred words will be written tonight?

Let’s take a better step on that tightrope.

Not maybe.

Not will.

Am.