I found myself speaking sharply to a student this afternoon. There was nothing different about his behaviour- nothing truly out of character in his actions. He is quite hasty by nature under normal circumstances, and today was really no different than any other. And there really was nothing different about the moment, the circumstances surrounding his impulsivity and my unravelling. It was quite an ordinary moment lived in an ordinary day. But at that exact moment of this otherwise ordinary day, something snapped within me. And the fragile distance between acceptance and rebuff was crossed.
I lost my cool.
I felt the thunder inside of me, the cool wind of frustration.
And for the remainder of the afternoon and into the evening, I couldn’t shake the unsettled feeling that was left within me. Something akin to shame and disappointment wrapped up in uncertainty, doubt in myself. I tried to excuse my behaviour, but found myself continually coming back to reminders of love. Found myself prompting my teacher-heart to reclaim again, love as the path toward reaching out. The path toward acceptance and forgiveness. Toward hope.
For love is kindly care.
Even while love is careful, steadied discipline.
And love is always hope. Always.
Within love, there is always another chance. We can always do better the next time.
As the day wore on, I softened my own interactions with the precious Four living under the roof of our home. I took time to read, talk, cuddle, console, whisper. And remind myself, that tomorrow: I will do better. I can do better, because I know to do better. I am a work in progress, a weak being. Prone to falter, prone to fail. But in falling down, I get back up again, resolving to stand that much longer the next time I find myself upright. Fixed in my intentions. For tomorrow is always another day. Tomorrow is always another opportunity.
These walls I have erected at times falsely paint a picture of me- a picture of my being infallible and experienced. Of course I am neither. I grieve my failings each and every day. My own inexperience in handling these delicate situations. But I try to focus my living and thus my writing on the positives I see: both in myself and in the world around me. Although there is always the possibility that one might mistake the stories I tell for sage advice. I would only wish for these words I share to be a testament to my humanity.
I have both my good days and my pitiful ones. Days in which I could easily go back to bed, and have a do-over.
I guess that is what tomorrows are for, what they are all about. Second chances.
So here’s to better days, brighter tomorrows and second chances. We all need them.
Once in a while.