At 4:36 am the stillness of the room was pierced by the shrieking of my cell phone. In the haze of my sleepiness, I couldn't quite detect what it was. Was it my alarm? No, I mused, groggily, I am intentional about not setting my alarm when I'm on vacation. I attempted to will myself back to the sleep that seemed to be so fleeting in this post-COVID-19 universe, but the unrelenting shrill of my traitorous cell phone compelled my hands to search for it on the unfamiliar furniture of my guest room. After a few moments, my fingers discovered its cool smoothness in the dark. I flipped it over and squinted at it through one half-opened eye.
Severe Alert
National Weather Service: A FLASH FLOOD WARNING is in effect for this area until 8:00 am EDT. This is a dangerous and life-threatening situation. Do not attempt to travel unless you are fleeing an area subject to flooding or under an evacuation order.
Darn it, I thought. That pretty much cancels my daily morning walk for today. The walk that I have been taking for almost two months during this pandemic. The walk that helps me preserve my sanity while "principaling" through a pandemic. My effort to practice radical self-care, squashed. And most importantly, the walk that my husband of 21 years had committed to taking with me while we were on our brief vacation. These moments with him are precious as the specter of the coming school year, with its long workdays and unprotected weekends was looming. We have learned throughout the years to seize opportunities to spend time together to preserve our friendship. Not spending that time with him would be the bigger disappointment.
All of these thoughts ran through my mind in a matter of seconds, and I determined that if I spent too much time musing over them that it would prevent me from returning to the sleep that seemed to be fleeing me as the moments passed. So - deciding to reassess the situation later, I rolled over and went back to sleep.
Approximately two hours later the sun began to peek in through the curtains. Its intrusion into my still room invariably nudged me out of my sleep for good, right around 6:45 am. I awoke with a start, overcome with the sense that I had overslept, but realizing again - I'm on vacation. But I also hated to "walk late," meaning, I prefer to walk before the sun makes a direct statement in the sky. I'd rather be out while the sun is making its initial ascent. So, I was "late," in a way, but I rolled over and saw that Greg was already awake. "Is it raining?" I asked him. He answered that he didn't know. I traipsed out of the bed and rustled to the window to see for myself - the sky was overcast and boding, but the ground was dry and there was no evidence of moisture on the grass on the driving range or paved path below our 6th-floor window. "I can make it," I thought. A quick walk, 30 minutes or more, and I can make it back before the sky opens up for the day. I shot him a look, "Are you coming?" I asked with a smile. Greg, who has never backed down from a challenge in the 28 years that I've known him, returned my smile with a confident grin. "Let's go," he said.
Quickly we changed into the workout gear that we purposefully packed for the trip. Just before we left the room, another shriek emanated from our phones at 7:22 am:
Severe Alert
National Weather Service: A FLASH FLOOD WARNING is in effect for this area until 11:15 am EDT. This is a dangerous and life-threatening situation. Do not attempt to travel unless you are fleeing an area subject to flooding or under an evacuation order.
Now we were forced to make a choice. Two major warnings for dangerous weather that would curtail our morning plans. Do I cancel my plans for progress or move forward with an attempt and make the best of the situation? But my current assessment of our conditions told a different story of the weather. "Maybe we should wait until later," he suggested. "No," I countered, "I can't walk in the heat of the day. It's supposed to be 90+ degrees today." "Okay," he answered, "Let's go," with a knowing "In for a penny ..." look. We grabbed our room keys and masks for travel in the common areas of the resort and headed out.
Down in the lobby, I considered the doorman who was dutifully holing the massive brass door open. Right next to him was a container of generic, black golf umbrellas available to the guests as they exited the building (no doubt for those who were attempting to brave a rainy tee-time of the expansive golf course.) "Should we borrow an umbrella?" I asked Greg. "Nah," he responded confidently, "We will be okay. If it gets too bad we can just come back." "In for a pound," I thought, as I walked out into the muggy morning. I set my Fitbit for my morning exercise, walking with a three-mile goal, and we set off.
We walked towards the driveway of the resort and caught our stride. As we walked, I observed the sky above us, looking for any indication that we might possibly need to make a premature return. The sky was still overcast but ... wait ... was that a peek of blue I spotted? I tried not to get too excited but took that tiny blue sky-patch as encouragement to press forward. We decided to walk off the resort but stay close just in case.
Our journey found us stumbling upon the 12th hole of the golf course that had a beautiful walkway right next to it. Why not, we decided, and our walk for the morning took us through the verdant and expansive course.
We encountered more holes on the course and my husband, whose teenage years were spent managing the grounds of the Army-Navy Country Club as he financed his way through private school, detailed to me the meanings of the various signs, and the structure of the course. The stone walls, the sand traps, the long tees, the tree-lined areas with golf-balls peeking through the brush came alive as he educated the educator. We were visited by two deer, who seemed as surprised to see us in the distance as we were to see them. With each step, we realized that the sky was evolving from a deep gray to a grayish pumpernickel blue, to a brilliant, Crayola-crayon-box-like sky blue with its accompanying fluffy, white clouds and bright yellow sun.
We completed our walk as we passed the clubhouse and attacked an inescapable, extremely steep hill that held the ticket to our return back to the safety of our room.
Triumphant, we returned back to the front door of the resort. I reflected on the journey and, after returning to our room, marveled on how it parallels what is to come for the upcoming school year (and for many, life in general.)
We have been given a forecast of doom and gloom in education. Every day, both traditional and social media outlets tell the tale of an impending disaster in the educational system with some contrasting arguments.
"Students won't be safe at school, vs. "Students will suffer at home."
"Students will be behind," vs. "Being behind is not the worst thing in the world because everyone will be behind."
"Students will die," vs. "Students won't get sick."
"Teachers can't engage students appropriately," vs. "This will be an opportunity for great creativity to flourish in education."
"The kids won't sit still for that long," vs. "They can sit still for video games for hours."
"We must remediate to help learning loss," vs. "Remediation will not benefit learning loss but exacerbate it."
"Parents won't be able to manage," vs. "Parents will do what they must."
"This will be a disaster," vs. "This will be amazing!"
What will we embrace? On its surface, we could give in to the forecast that this upcoming educational "experiment" will be a catastrophe. That we should tuck in our tails, remain inside, and wait for the impending severe weather to pass. The suggestion that we attempt the safest, most risk-averse approach to learning is antithetical to education. The science of education is full of risks. We consistently encourage our scholars to take risks and the best practitioners develop a safe classroom environment where taking risks is not only welcome but a sign of having the mindset of a problem-solver.
We cannot afford to lay still while we wait for the storm to pass. Despite the forecast, it is our responsibility as the official ushers of the next generation of professionals (and their families), to guide them into taking that step outside the safety of what we know into the unknown. Will there be missteps? Yes. Might you feel an uneasy drop of precipitation on your shoulder as you move forward? Absolutely. But we cannot afford to step back, hold back, or look back. This is the time to, in the words of my district's CEO, plan our course, do what we have planned, study the results, and act reflectively on the results. We can hear and understand a forecast but we must also do our due diligence to assess our immediate environment to see if that forecast actually applies to our situation. Doing otherwise would waste precious time that cannot be recovered and run the risk of missing opportunities while waiting in the shadows of safety and comfort.
The time is now. Step out in the clouds, anticipate the sun, and enjoy the journey.
