Wednesday, March 16, 2016

Forgetting

Every time I make an enormous mistake, I think, “Oh, please Lord, that has got to be the last time.”

When I was a teenager, I locked the keys of my mom’s car in the trunk on a Sunday afternoon in Lake Okeechobee. Locksmiths aren’t easy to come by in small towns on Sunday afternoons.

Then there was the time I was driving down Markham Woods Road and the engine of my car started making a strange knocking sound. Somehow, I’d forgotten to change the oil in the car for, like, a lot of years. The repairs ran in the thousands.

Sometimes I do stupid things with little consequence, like buying discounted mascara or leaving a bowl of shredded cheese in a place Aberdeen can happily help herself. These are the arghs of my life. They are frequent and funny and, on balance, not a big deal.

But other times, the mistakes are colossal, and I feel the effects for what feels like forever.

So every time I pull another stupid human trick, I think, “Okay, I’m done. That was awful. But that was it. Surely. Finally. Forever. Right? RIGHT?!”

Nope. I just did another doozy.

The Florida Department of Education requires teachers to go through a recertification process every five years. It’s not too bad, really. Teachers have to add 120 hours of continuing education to their license to keep it current. At the end of the five years, teachers send proof of the hours along with seventy-five bucks to the DOE, and all is well.

Me, though, with the forgetting. The last five years have been kinda full. There was finishing the master’s degree and getting married and moving to L.A. Then, you know, Hawaii and cancer and losing my mom and tearing apart our house. The surgeries. Africa. Grandbabies and work and writing.

Not a lot of teaching. Not a lot of paying attention to my teaching license.

In these same five years, I racked up a grand total of three continuing education hours. I have 117 to go. By June 30. Of this year.

Me and the forgetting.

When this bit of sunshine showed up in my email, I replied to the sender, “What happens if I don’t finish in time? I don’t teach right now, not exactly …” The reply was swift. I’ll lose my job. Well, more accurately, I’ll be put on a leave of absence until I get my crap together, during which time my job won’t sit around waiting for me until I finish.

Alrighty then.

But you know? I only panicked for an hour or so. And then I started making phone calls. And what I found in those phone calls was kindness. The dean at my school swiftly filled my in-box with ideas. The admissions director at Rollins College and his trusty side-kick said, “Melissa. Don’t you worry. We’ve got this.” My boss assured me no one was going on leave. And Matt. Always my Matt. “Cute woman. How can I help?”

Although I still have to get crazy busy to finish this massive amount of work in time, I am at peace. I have a posse. And I marvel.

Because you know, when I did stupid stuff in the past, the worst of it wasn’t the time and money I had to spend to clean up my mess. The worst was the obvious disappointment of the people I’d let down. The pursed lips. The shaking head. The turning away. And then, oh God, the retellings, over and over again. “You think that’s bad? You won’t believe the time Melissa …”

Lord forgive me, I’ve done the same thing to people I love, too. The same damn thing.

Pouring disappointment onto someone’s embarrassment creates shame. And shame is a tough thing to bring into the light of healing. I know this as much as I know anything. I pray—earnestly—that I never do that to someone again.

For me? I don’t know why I got to move to a neighborhood where people love well, why I now feel free to screw up, not without consequence, but certainly without trauma. (I also don’t know why I can’t seem to shake the forgetting thing, but I suspect it has something to do with my preference for dreaming over doing.)

So here’s what I’m dreaming about for all of us: healing. Complete, utter, and final healing. The bravery to say, “I have this thing, and it hurts. Can I tell you about it?” Letting another clean it, pour salve on it, bandage it, and hold our hands until the throbbing stops.


2 comments:

  1. You amaze me. I laugh because we all have been there but you put it in perspective. Love you

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  2. Oh you sound like a soul mate, Melissa! I also have a repertoire which began early in my childhood and continues (thankfully at a slower pace)!

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