Moving Slowly

This is the first time I've missed my deadline for posting to this blog, and I don't completely know why that is.  It might be that life has settled into such a rhythm here -- wake up, teach, plan, grade, navigate Beijing, be exhausted -- that I feel I don't have anything to write about.

That's so untrue, though.  So many things have happened.  For example, I have an apartment:  a tiny one-bedroom with light hardwood floors in a fabulous, tree-strewn neighborhood.  While every day seems to throw up another obstacle to actually being able to move into the place it feels enormously satisfying to have a place to stay, and when I walk on the streets around my new place I feel the most comfortable I've felt outside of school here.

I haven't written much about school because I feel weird blogging about it, but it is (as usual) the anchor to my life.  We went on China Studies field trips every day last week (they were great, and I plan to write about them more later).  On one of the days, we were on the bus for hours due to a miscalculation in travel time, and when the bus finally pulled back into school, I thought, "I'm home!"  In Seattle, I would immediately think, "Uh-oh..."; it's dangerous for any teacher to think of school as home.  But here?  I'll take any place that feels familiar, any place that feels like home, and it's true that I am happy in this place.  I feel challenged and supported and capable and terrified all at once, and they are feelings both exhilarating and comforting.  I don't mind, here, that school feels like home.  I welcome it.

During my non-school hours, though, I still feel a little bit like I'm at summer camp.  Soon, I think to myself, I'll be back in Seattle and I'll wake up in my bedroom with my cat crushing the air out of my lungs and I'll stumble into the living room and my roommate and I will watch three straight hours of Bones.

And part of that may be because of living in such a temporary environment.  Where I live right now feels like a hotel.  The floors are dark wood and marble and the walls are chillingly bland.  The showerhead only gives me a drizzle of water in the morning.  I only have five books on my shelf, and I've read four of them.  This is not how I like to live my life. 

This has been a short and belated post.  By the next time I write, I should be on October break, in my own apartment, in my own new neighborhood.  I'll be exploring.  I'll be well-rested.  I can't wait.