Break-fast: Quickly Broken

This morning, at 5 hours and 50 minutes past midnight, I broke the routine into which I had so comfortably fallen for the past two weeks: I got out of bed before 11 am. On purpose.

And perhaps what is even more surprising, is that not only did I get out of bed on purpose at that dawny hour, but I got out of bed with purpose: today was Day One of “teacher training” at my new high school.

Yet…despite the fact that I was excited enough to arise, and despite my love for eating breakfast with a little of the Word at my little table [read my Tuesday Lessons post!], I gave myself little time to spare between showering and sprucing. And hence marked the morning that I broke my habit of sleeping in and marked the morning in which also shattered the one-and-only routine I’d implemented since I’d moved. Not only did I skip my table time, I skipped my breakfast as well.

But by 9:00 am, I was sitting at a new table in the high school cafeteria and was halfway through the first lecture (as well my second glass of Continental Orange Juice), and I was trying to get into the early-rising swing of things.

It felt like it was 2:00 in the afternoon.

By 2:00, the morning seemed like yesterday, and my mind was full of advanced-academic acronyms and state standard speeches. Yet though I was exhausted, the excitement for what I was about to do continued to outweigh my fatigue. I just tried to allow the information to soak into my mind, like the sweat seeping into the toes of my burgundy flats was as I sat and listened.

After all the lectures and all the color-coded papers and all the powerpoints from today, I came away with one major heart-palpitating impression that keeps pulsing its way through me: I have a feeling I have no idea about what I’m about to get myself into.

I have a feeling that there’s not a whole lot I can do to prepare for it either. Like the few words my new resident teacher said to me today, it’s going to be “trial by fire.” How comforting. But I know she’s right; there’s going to be no other way to do it except to, well do it (which, if I can humbly remind myself, is all I’ve been longing for).

Yesterday I saw a man who was bungee-cording a fifteen-foot yellow ladder to the back of his recumbent bicycle with plans to ride, ladder in tow, to his next location. He was doing it. He was doing his best. And it wasn’t just the anemic “best” which is so commonly “done” with half-assed action. That man was using his resources to truly make something happen, and tonight, the streetside memory of him pumped me with another thought: if he could do that, I can do this.

No one else is going to do my best. It’s mine to do.

This is the Stone Ground Story of stone-broke normalcies.


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