speaking too soon

It appears my glorying in the evidence of spring may have been a bit premature. Today, winds press against the house, and when our dogs whine to be let out I ask, Do you really have to go, badly? And they return, dripping with murk from the yard--wet pawprints with globs of mud and bits of dry grass. It is messy outdoors, sleety rain, shifting colder, into the threat of snow. Watching an interactive weather map, I see clouds of rain and snow breathing over the Midwest, colored green and gray and white, shifting, smoothing itself over the landscape. We had no snowstorms of substance in our little river town, but it's been relentless nonetheless; snowfalls frequent and small, covering over the salt studded layer before it.

This week I made the official decision not to teach high school part time while pursuing my MFA at the University of Minnesota. I thought I could do it, especially if it were just one class a day, and I'd even gotten approval from the program director to TA classes later in the day, but she expressed a deep rooted concern that it would eat into my writing time. I sincerely doubted I would rise early enough to write as the school buses filled the world, but I realize it's not about that one hour each morning, the mere five hours a week--and it's not even about the planning or the grading, since so much of that I've learned to steam line, especially if I'm teaching a class I've taught before (variation on a theme). It's about the energy it requires to be a good teacher and the energy it would take to approach college courses--both as an instructor and as a student. I need to dedicate myself to this; it's the only chance I'll have.

Until then, I will enjoy the quiet of my life, marvel at the energy of my high school students, and read books for pleasure in the waning light of the evening. Currently: Half of a Yellow Sun by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie. I wanted to read along with these lovely ladies, and thus far, I am glad. As I've already mentioned, I am reading books I can slide out of my life and into the world without regret or suspicion of re-reading, so much of what I've been reading has been disappointing, in a sense. I'm ready to marvel at a book whose author has a gift for language, for pacing, for character development. How about you: read anything good lately?