Wednesday, August 12, 2015
Who knew I'd have so little time to devote to writing, ranting and waxing poetic when I retired and launched my great (ad)venture in real estate?
Alright, alright, alright, I'll admit that I've ranted a lot. It just never transferred into actual writing. In fact, most of my ranting has been peppered all along the North Dallas toll road, Interstate 35 and thoroughfares throughout North Texas in general. And, the truth be told, those rants weren't exactly PG fare either.
Such is my life.
So finally after months in writing remission, I'm taking tiny baby blogging steps again, so I'll keep it short.
This was the first summer I spent without attending/working at a high school journalism workshop. Even after I retired from teaching, I still dutifully participated at a summer high school publications workshop.
But not this summer. No siree, Missy.
This summer I boldly declared my independence from all things counterproductive and resigned from the workshop (for reasons better left in the "if-you-can't-say-anything-nice-don't-say-it-at-all category). Instead, I flew off on my first European trip ever–to Italy.
And, sadly (or happily depending upon your perspective), I did not miss the workshop.
No siree, Missy, not one bit.
Such a revelation actually surprised me. In ways I had never realized before, the distance was quite liberating. There is something rather confining and restricting about not letting go, about not letting others step up, about not moving on. Talk about an epiphany.
And then there's something rather remarkable that occurs when distance brings clarity, especially from half a world away. I was sitting with friends at a little Italian cafe waving to school kids whizzing through the piazza on their bicycles as they journeyed home. That experience brought more joy than a summer full of workshops.
I guess you had to be there--or not there--to understand.