I quit my job.
Quit. Resigned. Announced my retirement. (that last one, patently false)
I did the unthinkable, in one sense. I’m a teacher. Teachers don’t stop mid-year. If they decide to prospect for greener grass, they usually have the courtesy to wait until their current crop is ready for harvest in May. Once in awhile a teacher will need a maternity leave in the middle of the year, and sometimes a teacher’s spouse might undergo a career change, thereby necessitating the teacher’s own, altered plan. Not the case here. We’re firmly entrenched on the homefront. I just knew it was time. I submitted my resignation, finished the semester, packed up my things. I quit.
I’m struggling with the reality here at the end of the work week. Back on Monday, when students and colleagues got themselves up at the crack of early so that they could make it to school on time, I slept in. On Tuesday, when I went to the grocery in the middle of the day, I realized a rather intoxicating freedom from the strict schedule I am used to keeping. Wednesday, the sun was shining and I headed toward the campus where my very part-time teaching gig will start after the weekend ends. Thursday, I scrambled to make a syllabus a reality. (That’s not quite finished yet, yet here I am, procrastinating…)
Today, it hits me. I quit my job. Here’s the thing. There is no next ‘thing.’ I have to find a way to re-order my days. Find purpose. Find an adventure. Figure out just what I want to be when I ‘grow up.’ A writing friend and teaching colleague gave me this advice: “think about what you love and care deeply about. Find people who are doing that work, and join them there.”
Mission Critical. Find that.