Defrosted

When I wrapped my last essay meeting a few days before the end of this past application cycle, I set an intention to write, and write often. I missed having an idea flutter into my head and running with it, hearing the words I might use as I did dishes, ran errands, or folded laundry and actually sitting down to type them out. I sporadically jotted down wispy phrases on scrap paper I conveniently keep in my kitchen island’s utensil drawer for when something hits me.

Essay work drained me this fall, as much as I left most of my student meetings fulfilled and calmer. I relish the feeling of having thought deeply, that foggy exhaustion upon looking up after wandering around my brain for considerable time. I pride myself on shouldering my students’ experiences and helping them make sense of how and why they’re better now because of living through them. They noticeably grew and eventually didn’t just want edits or my opinion; with several of them, we developed a writing rhythm and partnership that I ended up jealously wishing I had for myself. Don’t we all want a trustworthy sounding board with an eye for meticulous punctuation?

As much as I appreciated supporting my students, it felt like all my thoughts and musings went to them. Ideas for myself? They rarely came, and when they did, I was too busy to focus on them. More than that, I became so familiar with my students’ varied voices that I sensed losing mine. I tossed my little notes when I periodically organized the kitchen counter.

Then, I made excuses.

If only I had the grit to run in the cold, the words would come.

If I worked in a sunnier spot in my house, I’d feel inspired.

When application season ends, I’ll have more time.

So, on the precipice of winter and a much-needed work slowdown, I ordered a desk on Black Friday, intent on moving myself from the dining room table (and proximity to snacks) to our south-facing sunroom that is bathed in light, even during the grayest days in Cleveland. It turned out the desk wouldn’t arrive until the end of January, so I gave myself grace after the last applications were submitted. I read. I cooked big dinners for my family on weeknights again. I prepared for the next group of juniors who were ready to hit the ground running. And, I resolved to write, if even for twenty minutes a day, beginning January 1.

I followed my promise to an extent, journaling over my morning coffee and again before bed, but I stayed away from the keyboard til just a few days ago. Now, with a week left in February, I’m ready to come to terms with why I don’t write despite my desire to—and with what feels so obviously like hypocrisy. I set deadlines for students, encouraging them to give me stream-of-consciousness word vomit just to flex that narrative muscle while mine has atrophied.

If any benefit has come from my episode of writer’s block, it’s that I’m even more in tune with my students. Empathizing with them—remembering in detail what my life looked like and how my dreams felt at 17 or 18 years old—makes me great at my job. Now, I have felt the reluctance they experience, except they’re nervous to write because they sense their future is riding on their essay. So I’ve asked myself, what is it that’s holding me back? The obvious answer is judgment—that I fail to make a point, or my word choice isn’t the best, or—and this one is the worst—I leave the reader with a feeling of who cares?

Photo Credit: Stephanie Stein, who has the grit and determination to run almost daily in the cold and right through any obstacle life throws at her.

Maybe that’s been my problem—the idea that what I’m saying has to be for others, impart wisdom, prove something, or advance me in some way. I guess in the absence of devoting myself to my new desk for hours a day, of truly refocusing something I love into something strict, with defined edges, and mandatory, it doesn’t have to be for anything other than…joy.

So here I am, at my desk, swiveling in my chair, watching this thaw create the slightest haze, as if the earth is breathing a sigh of relief along with me.