A Strange Thing Called Time

Today I taught my last class of the 2009-2010 school year and said “happy summer” or “goodbye” (to graduating students) to the angelic, devilish teenagers I now call “my kids.” I felt sad saying goodbye, aware that it’s (for non-graduating students) only “goodbye” for the summer because I’m back next year, but heartbreakingly sad nevertheless.

It’s the first year I was the teacher, not the student, after almost two decades of sitting in a student desk. I don’t remember ever rejoicing on the last day of school. School is one of my “homes.” And for the past 17 or 18 years of my life – and this year is no exception – I’ve measured time by the school calendar. We might celebrate New Year’s in the winter, but August and September, with bouquets of newly sharpened pencils, are my new year.

And I couldn’t help but feel emotional when I thanked my students for the past year. They braved lessons with a “1^st year baby teacher” who was sometimes bewildered by Polish school culture. They were patient with me. They were kind to me. They challenged me. They greeted me in the hallways with a smile. They answered my questions. We laughed until we cried. Sometimes after a difficult lesson only I cried. They were so honest and open with me about their lives, their dreams, and their emotions. They amazed me with their willingness to try speaking in a new language and experiment with the sometimes crazy “out of the box” lessons I threw at them. They tried to get away with murder. Their goal was always to convince me to abandon their English education and instead play baseball with them every lesson. They were clever, creative, mischievous, rebellious, loving, and wonderful. They were my motivation for walking to school during an October blizzard, a May flood, and on any day when I felt overwhelmed by all of the “newness” here. They’re my kids. I’ll miss them this summer. They’re why I’m teaching here again next year.

I’ve also said goodbye this month to people I won’t see again next year, including other Central Europe ELCA teachers.

For the June 4-6 weekend, ELCA teachers from 3 schools in Slovakia visited Cieszyn. They were part of my eclectic and supportive “home away from home” family this year. They’re the people I could tell teaching or culture shock anecdotes to and know that they understood. We didn’t get together frequently, but it was always a joy when we did and there was a tangible excitement in the room whenever we had the opportunity to gather.

Here’s a photograph of our June get-together in Cieszyn. We’re waving because we’re mimicking a Polish folk dance movement, but I’ve renamed this photograph “God’s work, our hands.”

Our June gathering was an opportunity to celebrate the year and say goodbye. Only one Slovakia teacher from the weekend is teaching here again next year. On Sunday, we had brunch and a little worship/sending service where we sang hymns and people shared stories, read prayers, and reflected on the year.

I read (well, tried to read, I cried during the 1^st sentence and had to ask someone for help), a beautiful reflection on time I recently discovered. It’s a speech for the New Year by Pope Benedict XVI, but for me, it’s also a speech for this School Year, and the next. His words deeply resonated with what I’ve experienced my first year in Poland and the mix of emotions tumbling around in my heart this week. Here it is:

“The year is ending. This means, as always, that we spend a few minutes in reflection. For a moment we become conscious of the strange thing called "time," which otherwise we simply use without thinking about it. We feel both the melancholy and the consolation of our own transiency. Much that caused us distress, much that weighed us down and seemed to make progress impossible, has now passed and become quite unimportant. As we look back, difficult days are transfigured in memory, and the now almost forgotten distress leaves us more peaceful and confident, more composed in the face of present threats, for these too will pass. The consolation of transiency: Nothing lasts, no matter how important it claims to be.

But this consoling thought, which gives patience its character of promise, also has its discouraging and saddening aspect. Nothing lasts, and therefore along with the old year not only difficulties but much that is beautiful has passed away. We cannot say to any moment: "Stay a while! You are so lovely!" Anything that is within time comes and then passes away.

Our feelings toward a new year show the same ambivalence as our feelings toward the old year. A new beginning is something precious; it brings hope and possibilities as yet undisclosed. "Every beginning has a magic about it that protects us and helps us live" (Herman Hesse) ... What can we say at this moment of transition? First of all, we can do the very human thing the moment urges upon us: we can use the time of reflection in order to stand aside and widen our vision, thus gaining inner freedom and a patient readiness to move on again.”

To conclude our sending service, Dee, one of the Slovakia teachers, sang a Polish song about time and how we may never meet again in this place, in this way. This summer all the teachers at our gathering will scatter around the globe. It’s a song that’s heartbreakingly true. “Together again we will not.” Not in this place, in this way.

Jak szybko mijaja chwile

Jak szybko plyne czas

Za rok, za dzien, za chwile

Razem nie bedzie nas

How quickly moments passed

How fast swim times

Per year, per day, for the moment

Together again we will not

The sadness I’ve felt frequently this month is a little puzzling, despite all my attempts to dissect it, understand it. But I’m thankful for the sadness, that I’m sad for this challenging, enlightening, awakening, terrifying, invigorating, opening, overwhelmingly beautiful year to conclude.

How quickly moments passed.

Stay a while! You are so lovely!

“For all that has been, thanks! For all that will be, yes!” Dag Hammarskjold.

See you on Sunday, Chicago!