Sabbaticals: Finishing One to Start Another
For the past year, I've been on sabbatical. Not an official one. Nobody even knew I was on it. People today call it checking out, and it could also be called a detour. I think in context, though, sabbatical works. Here's what happened.
LSU was a gift I gave myself. I had gotten my undergraduate degree in education under duress. I was married, had just had a baby, and my husband did not want me to go to school. He took every opportunity to make it difficult for me, mostly by making me feel guilty. My master's degree was convenient, and I was still in survival mode when I pursued it. But LSU--I was free, and I celebrated by getting my doctorate at a terrific place. I've never regretted it.
I majored in Curriculum & Instruction; I didn't really care for the field of education at all. I had become a teacher because it was the easiest thing in the world for a smart girl like me to major in with a difficult husband and a baby. My doctoral studies were different, though. Curriculum Theory was my specialization--and it helped me see education and teaching in new, radical ways. I had not been a radical woman. I was now. The program at LSU was stimulating and fast-paced. We were expected to publish and present at large national conferences. It was heady stuff. I entered the ruthless world of academic competition, which got worse as I moved into my job as a professor. I acknowledge that a lot of the conflict arose in my own mind. I kept track of acclaim and accolades that went to my colleagues. I pushed myself to publish, getting one book contract after another. I got tenure and promotion to Associate Professor. I got accolades and acclaim of my own. And then one day it happened.
My self-awarded sabbatical started when one year I did not write a conference paper. "Somehow it always gets done," was my motto. This year, it did not. Neither did the next one. I began to feel anxious at the thought of writing. I would sit in front of the computer and nothing would come. For hours. Last year, I didn't go to a single conference. I worked on anything that kept me from writing. And it worked: I didn't write a word.
I told myself I didn't like anything about my job. I told myself I was a slow writer who didn't enjoy it but did it out of obligation. I told myself I didn't like teaching. I told myself I couldn't imagine doing this for the next twenty years. I sought out diversions of all kinds and created elaborate avoidance behaviors to sustain all these things I was telling myself. And then, right in the middle of all of it, I turned 50. Life, it is true, changes at 50.
There is a lot of significant fill-in information that goes here, but more on this later...
My officially awarded sabbatical starts this week. And, you aren't going to believe this, but I am ready to get to work. What it feels like is that someone was preventing me from doing my work--not allowing me to. Which is true. I kept myself from doing it; I didn't allow myself to. And that's just as bad as if somebody had tied my hands and kept me from it. What does turning 50 have to do with anything? It has helped with the fever pitch. I realize there is a lot more surrounding my job that I can do on my terms--with what happens to other people or by other people having little to do with me. The pressure on me was coming from me. Nobody else. As I think about it, those around me treat me graciously and generously. I am blessed with people who kindly care about me. It was I who have not been caring for myself.
So I am glad I am starting my official sabbatical at the beginning of my fifty-first year, when finally, I am ready for it. I have an article to finish, a manuscript to review, and a book to write. And I am committing to writing on this little blog--for myself--that I was so excited to begin two years ago. It feels really good to say I'm going to get to work.
For the past year, I've been on sabbatical. Not an official one. Nobody even knew I was on it. People today call it checking out, and it could also be called a detour. I think in context, though, sabbatical works. Here's what happened.
LSU was a gift I gave myself. I had gotten my undergraduate degree in education under duress. I was married, had just had a baby, and my husband did not want me to go to school. He took every opportunity to make it difficult for me, mostly by making me feel guilty. My master's degree was convenient, and I was still in survival mode when I pursued it. But LSU--I was free, and I celebrated by getting my doctorate at a terrific place. I've never regretted it.
I majored in Curriculum & Instruction; I didn't really care for the field of education at all. I had become a teacher because it was the easiest thing in the world for a smart girl like me to major in with a difficult husband and a baby. My doctoral studies were different, though. Curriculum Theory was my specialization--and it helped me see education and teaching in new, radical ways. I had not been a radical woman. I was now. The program at LSU was stimulating and fast-paced. We were expected to publish and present at large national conferences. It was heady stuff. I entered the ruthless world of academic competition, which got worse as I moved into my job as a professor. I acknowledge that a lot of the conflict arose in my own mind. I kept track of acclaim and accolades that went to my colleagues. I pushed myself to publish, getting one book contract after another. I got tenure and promotion to Associate Professor. I got accolades and acclaim of my own. And then one day it happened.
My self-awarded sabbatical started when one year I did not write a conference paper. "Somehow it always gets done," was my motto. This year, it did not. Neither did the next one. I began to feel anxious at the thought of writing. I would sit in front of the computer and nothing would come. For hours. Last year, I didn't go to a single conference. I worked on anything that kept me from writing. And it worked: I didn't write a word.
I told myself I didn't like anything about my job. I told myself I was a slow writer who didn't enjoy it but did it out of obligation. I told myself I didn't like teaching. I told myself I couldn't imagine doing this for the next twenty years. I sought out diversions of all kinds and created elaborate avoidance behaviors to sustain all these things I was telling myself. And then, right in the middle of all of it, I turned 50. Life, it is true, changes at 50.
There is a lot of significant fill-in information that goes here, but more on this later...
My officially awarded sabbatical starts this week. And, you aren't going to believe this, but I am ready to get to work. What it feels like is that someone was preventing me from doing my work--not allowing me to. Which is true. I kept myself from doing it; I didn't allow myself to. And that's just as bad as if somebody had tied my hands and kept me from it. What does turning 50 have to do with anything? It has helped with the fever pitch. I realize there is a lot more surrounding my job that I can do on my terms--with what happens to other people or by other people having little to do with me. The pressure on me was coming from me. Nobody else. As I think about it, those around me treat me graciously and generously. I am blessed with people who kindly care about me. It was I who have not been caring for myself.
So I am glad I am starting my official sabbatical at the beginning of my fifty-first year, when finally, I am ready for it. I have an article to finish, a manuscript to review, and a book to write. And I am committing to writing on this little blog--for myself--that I was so excited to begin two years ago. It feels really good to say I'm going to get to work.
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