1) My computer was broken and I felt the need to ship it back to Minnesota to get it fixed2) I had to finally think about starting grad school
3) Moving 3 hours north takes a lot of work
4) Classes started and I needed a chance to freak out
After getting a chance to stop and take a breath I can finally tell everyone how excited I am! This is first time I have been excited about reading all text books I have. The first time I am taking notes because I am sincerely interested in what is on the page. And I better enjoy it because I have 2 years of this and a whole lot of reading. I plan on keeping track of how many pages I have read as time passes. So far, since Friday I have tallied 124 pages (I want to note that those are class readings and do not include the book I'm reading to stay sane).
I will admit that my greatest fear was not the reading, or the assignments that will undoubtedly keep me busy throughout all of this...what put my stomach in knots was whether or not I get along with my classmates. For those of you who I haven't told, my program runs on a cohort basis. There are 6 first years total (yes, I said 6) and we are all in the same classes throughout the program. This means that if one person clashes with my awesome personality, there is no escape. Let us all be thankful that the powers that be (the department) chose well and I am can safely say that we will all survive. There will be a lot of chilling.
We were told by several second year students that we would cry at least once in our first year, probably more than once. So far, just once, from one of the passages in my text. I didn't cry when Dumbledore died, or in any books I've read of abuse, genocide, or other things of that nature...but a text book finally pushes me over the edge. So now I feel obliged to share this father's metaphor for his grief after losing his 2-year-old son. I hope you have tissues close by.
I am building a three-sided house.
It is not a good design. With one side open to the weather, it will never offer complete shelter from life's cold winds. Four sides would be much better, but there is no foundation on one side, and so three walls are all I have to work with.
I am building this place from the rubble of the house I used to own...It had four good walls and would, I thought, survive the most violent storm. It did not. A storm beyond my understanding tore my house apart and left the fragments on the ground around me...And so I rebuild. Not, as so many onlookers would suggest, because I need shelter once again. The storm now travels within me, and there is no shelter from the tempest behind doors or walls.
Who can show me how to build here now? There are no architects, no experts in designing three-sided houses. Why is it that that so many people seem to have advice for me? "Move on," they say, quite convinced that another house can replace the one I lost...I grow weary of consultations based on murky insight, delivered with such confidence.
...And yet among those who wish to see me house rise again, there are real heroes too. People who are not daunted by the wreckage. It is not a pleasant role for them to play because the dust clings to those who come to see and it will not wash off when they go home...Above all they know how difficult this task is, and no suggestion comes from them about how far along I ought to be.
This time I was able tot make it through without tears, but...wow. This is what I'm getting into. I will be learning how to walk into these houses and let dust cling and make no judgements.
There is another side to my future path, one that fits my hopes and goals to a tee. I read over and over again that the role of the school counselor has roots in advocating for social justice. These things pop up out of the page and I find myself nodding my head with a smile on my face. So, I am sitting here, listening to music which points out these injustices and thinking "hell, yea, I have a purpose!"
