Leap and the Net Will Appear

Leap and the Net Will Appear

On the drive to Santa Barbara,

I coo over bougainvillea,

murmur over nasturtiums,

cascading in an orange spill over walls,

marvel at the Birds of Paradise blooming, wild, I think, by the side of the road.

In a room full of women on a Friday night,

We, school leaders and thinkers and teachers,

Are birds of paradise ourselves, vibrant,

nibbling at the question:

what comes next?

Such a good question.

What do we hope will come next?

In my experience, it is good we cannot see around corners.

Good to quiet our inner Chicken Littles, yellow tutus and all.

Good—and hard—to silence those inner critics

Who rudely suggest we are not enough

When we are.

Rilke advises us to live the questions—

And that makes me think of Germany—

Where my son, is--our miracle baby—no, that’s not true, all three were miracles, but his unexpected arrival on the edge of my own headship, makes me think of him as even more miraculous—as I mentioned last night.

Our focus toggles between being here, committed to learning all we can--

about searches

and finance

and governance

and obstacles

and interviews

and culture

and fundraising

and our families

and our schools who are always in our minds.

We soak up information that will serve us someday—maybe--

And wonder did those boys throw a party after all?

Will my partner remember to feed the dog?

We allow possibilities to slink around our ankles

Like a pack of needy cats.

Do we pick one up for a cuddle,

or step away from their sleek and unrelenting demands?

Perhaps we should sing to them.

We hold multiple realities in our heads at once, fighting fatigue—

some of us are on East Coast time--

It’s Friday, the end of a long week in April.

In schools, spring weeks are always long.

We women—as varied as those flowers I adore—

Are many ages, stages, colors,

We play many roles.

We are book buyers and askers of questions and dog walkers and mothers and dreamers and doers and un-tiers of knots.

We are busy and bossy and brilliant and tired.

The irony of self-care is that we tell everyone else to do it.

I ask what we did before we came here:

We zoomed and interviewed.

We took the day off—guiltily,

Found subs for classes,

Walked on the beach,

Woke up early, too early for now.

I got my TSA pre-check and felt very rich,

Gave 3 people sad news and one happy news,

gave my dog a treat.

sent messages saying “I’m off the grid”

hugged a bus full of Dutch teachers,

visited UC Santa Barbara—got lost and fell in love,

Said goodbye to my great dane and dropped her off at my mom’s.

Chris says, “I haven’t left school yet.”

We laugh, recalling days when we’ve all stayed and stayed.

One of us explored Santa Monica,

Gave a tour,

Packed,

Went to a friend’s Pilates class with a celebrity guest,

Hosted book club,

Took my 6th flight in 8 days.

My husband, my mother-in-law; my 3 year old and my dog all came with me,
 one of us confesses.

“Oooh,” we murmur to that, sad that her weekend alone has morphed into something else all together—the best laid plans.

One said, “No parents, no parties—got that, boys?”

I watered my 20 plants,

Made cold brew,

Played Mah Jong,

Covered an elective, then ran to the hotel,

Returned my husband and my baby, so I could stay at the hotel alone.

I was a sucker, taught AP Lang, left the house at 4 am, hugged my son, who said, “I’m not letting you go.”

I observed a first-grade candidate’s demo lesson and she brought real live ladybugs!

Went to my favorite café

Approved a Varsity Basketball coach,

Spoke to my son, who teaches in Algeria,

Had lunch with the person who came on Wednesdays to make supper when my twins were tiny and my husband had just been deployed,

Dropped off Mira-bear at my sister’s,

Attended a private school access lunch,

Continued the conversation with my husband about our relationship b/c he was trapped with me in the car.

We listen to each other

And practice trying on another self.

I glimpse the versions of the selves we are, have been, will be--

They peek out,

as varied as the succulents that perch proudly here,

agave, growing like a welcome arch,

flowers I cannot name because I am an East Coast girl.

We eat sumptuous meals and scarf snacks,

And on Saturday night, we let our hair down.

There is wine and tacos, and the faculty tell stories,

share bits and pieces of our own journeys--

glass fragments, bright colors, that shift and shake into designs

like those we twist into view in a kaleidoscope.

Headship.

We were mentored or not.

We made a plan or didn’t.

This happened, then that.

Someone saw something in us.

We are, all of us, tightrope walkers, who reject balance

Because it is a preposterous ideal.

We make our way, courageously, across a length of rope,

stretched from one pole to the next,

Breathing—because when we do hard things,

We must breathe.

We place our feet deliberately, knowing that we might fall, fail.

And if we do, we’ll find a way to rise again,

Like a phoenix.

Seasons, cycles, phases—forces that govern the rhythms of the world,

Bigger than all of us.

These glorious women beside me, in front of me, so much in front of all of us.

I look at the next generation of school leaders,

Criss-cross-applesauce, seated on the floor, nestled into sofas, crowded into a lovely candle-lit room listening,

their attention, a gift.

Through my tears—because we carry all of our griefs with us--

The women’s faces seem to sparkle with

Possibility.

Later, by the fire, where I linger for an uncharacteristically long time,  

A favorite maxim floats into my mind:

Leap and the net will appear.