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Confession Time

I have a confession.

I am not a English teacher.

I had this epiphany last week during a training I attended to prepare for the courses I will be teaching next year. The workshop was filled with real English teachers. The ones you remember from high school, with their favorite books and deep insights into the writer's meaning of punctuation marks and interpretations of sentence structures. They all love a good story--as long as it's filled with the appropriate rising action, climax, and resolution.

That's not me. I know that many writers just like punctuation marks because they can separate ideas. I've also learned that sometimes the best stories on the planet would show a flat line on a rising action graph. The better ones often have no resolution. Just a vast empty space waiting to be filled with a dream.

Teaching English is one of those things that I can do well because...well...I can just do a lot of things sufficiently. It's one of my gifts.

But it doesn't fill me with a sense of being alive, and that is the question I'm exploring lately. What moments of my existence make me feel alive?

It's not teaching English.

It is, so far, swapping life stories with friends and strangers, wandering the streets of Barcelona, road trips, writing, resting in the arms of a lover, laughing with good friends, taking in the sights of the beach and the mountains, listening to music that grips my heart, dancing, and listening to the stillness of the dead of night.

That...and a few other experiences...equal life for me. I have no choice for now but to continue teaching English, but I hope to begin working toward finding a way to incorporate more of these moments into my livelihood.
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