I thought it would be different going back for the first time. The road was the same, same rough patches, same scars of rock jutting out of the mountain in the same old places. Those same named mountains: Purgatory, Tinker. The bridge over the James which I had a few times in moments of desperation and rage considered hurling myself into seemed more benign than I remember it. Had I gone through with my melodramatic stunt, I likely would've only ended up bobbing awkwardly in amongst the ice, like the man in the news who jumped off a highway overpass and landed, miraculously, on his feet, so had no choice but to return meekly his car and drive to work. Two years since I've visited Hollins, and nothing has changed. I was the same awkward girl. I thought about the exact same things I used to think about when I made the commute.
One of those things, I thought of my old teachers. A particular bit of advice they gave me an uncanny lot, written on papers, told in advisor meetings, and once, hissed drunkly at me when I was pulled aside at a reading was "I'm giving you permission." Go with it. Stop holding back. That thing you want to do--do it. As if they knew exactly what would always be my hangup, the saboteur of whatever it was I was trying to accomplish by getting myself a writing degree.
There were other things, too, though. I was nervous, I chewed my hangnails, which is a nervous habit I do not have.
I realized a thing: I want to go back to teaching writing when I have a family, so I can use the breaks to spend time taking care of said family, not for good-teaching-reasons. I don't know if that's a good reason for doing anything. I sure don't have a plan for any of it now. I hate not having plans.
Tonight, I stress-exercised, built a great fire out of my yard litter, cleaned everything, and drank a bottle of wine. I'm still nervous. God, I'm such a nerd.
