really, really.

Sometimes my writing droughts are a result
of too much.
Too many thoughts. Too many decisions. Too many things.
Too much to say, really.

[but I really want to overcome. I really want to say it. really.]


Yesterday I taught a real life English class.
They were breathing, staring, tenth graders that called me Miss Moon. Honors ones, at that.
I couldn't sleep the night before.
I was unprepared, I stumbled, I stared back at them blankly.
I mean, I have no idea how to teach.

In short:
I was awful.
It's pretty funny, though,
how looking back on it now,
it wasn't all that bad.
Even though, really, it was.

But:
It didn't change my mind
about doing teacher-y things
because I learned that
eventually, being comfortable up there happens
eventually, figuring it out happens
eventually, getting sleep happens.
And what already happened? One girl actually said, "This was fun!"

In other words:
I did it.
That was the confidence I needed. Just a tiny little burst.
Yeah, it was fun.

The teacher I've been placed with keeps telling me how crucial it is that teachers love teenagers.
Which is truer and more important than anyone thinks/realizes/observes.
I haven't been able to figure out if I do or not. Having never really thought about it.
I realized, the way I always realize things (slowly, surely, absolutely), that I really do.
I love them. 
They're funny. and ridiculous. and intense.
They're brilliant. and sweet. and rude. and obnoxious.
And they have potential practically bursting through their veins.

Life is fun sometimes, friends. It really* is.

*this post obviously called for the word really a million and one times, hope you didn't mind.