I’m like that know-it-all kid in 2nd grade.
Hand straight up in the air begging for recognition.
“Pick me, pick me I know the answer”
The teacher praises me for being correct, and feeds into my need to be acknowledged.
That was then.
This is now.
There is no teacher.
But I still need to be acknowledged.
And I don’t have a 2nd grade classroom anymore.
There’s just this massive classroom of life.
Too many lessons to be learned and not enough time.
And the older I get, the harder the lessons become.
And the grades don’t come easy.
The failures aren’t like D’s… they hurt.
This classroom isn’t like it used to be.
My ego gets bruised like a 2 week old banana.
My persona fragile like a delicate porcelain vase.
Words that shouldn’t hurt… do.
Actions that are intended to be loving or helpful, cut me like a knife.
My desk is tattered with etched carvings of frustration and pain.
Ingrained into the desk like painful memories of past failures.
No teacher to be found here.
But lots of fellow students.
One day it dawns on me.
I am the teacher.
Teacher of self.
It is I who must praise & recognize.
It is I who must ask questions and seek answers.
It is I who must continue to learn in this classroom.
This classroom of life.