Not Enough Time

Lately I've been falling asleep wishing I had more time.

I have to force myself shut off the lights, run the dishwasher, clomp upstairs, brush my teeth, and crawl into bed.

There is simply so much to do.
My mind is abuzz.
There. Just. Isn't. Enough. Time.

As I confront the stark reality of time, my management of it, and that ceaseless trail of stuff-I-have-to-do-or-want-to-do-or-want-to-think-about-if-only-I-had-an-extra-hour-to-myself, I am struck by the reality that this plight is shared by my students.

They, too, don't have enough time.

Not enough time for the valuable conversations that draw them deeper to their friends; not enough time to enjoy dinner; not enough time to read To Kill a Mockingbird and really get something out of it; not enough time to discuss politics, help set the table, wash dishes, walk the dog, sit in the grass, or ask a grandparent to tell them a story.

Not enough time to think a thought
that is theirs alone.

There just isn't enough time.

Now when I use the word "time," I'm not referring to life on earth being too short; it's about the hours in the day. I could definitely use 26, and I think my students could too.

Yet what would falling asleep feel like in a 26 hour day? Would I have gotten everything done? Were I able to actually complete all the tasks required of me--if I'd crossed off each of my TO DOs with a fat, black Sharpie--would I really be able to relax?

My creeping suspicion is "no."

Because my students and the teachers I surround myself with--my colleagues, my Personal Learning Network of engaged educators near and far--are curious. They are passionate. And a casualty of this passion-fueled curiosity is that there are always more ideas than there are opportunities to see them through.

Our thought lives are works in progress...they are rough drafts. So we need to be forced to find comfort in the messy, the incomplete, the process-driven.

See, that's what the best classrooms and schools do: they are idea factories. They are places where hallway conversations spiral into questions about the how? the why? and the what if?

Deep within each idea we have rests the potential to become one of Kerouac's "mad ones." The ones about whom he writes, in chapter 1 of On the Road:

the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones that never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes "Awww!"

This is the ceiling for a school, a classroom, a relationship between student and teacher: it is a ceiling made of the intellectual imaginary that provides opportunities for questions.

Back to those 26 hours.

I've convinced myself that 26 hours in the life of a mad roman candle person would still feel infinitesimally brief. And, frankly, if Monday granted us sufficient enough time to finish every thought, complete every idea, and summarize every conversation, what would Tuesday hold? 

Tuesday would be far more boring than any of these "mad ones" could bear.

Whatever we're able to finish in a day has to be "good enough." And good enough is GOOD. Good enough is unfinished. It's ugly. It's half-baked. It needs polishing. 

Time management is a skill, but being at peace with good enough is, too. 

Tonight I'll try to fall asleep grateful that I crave my waking hours, that I want more hours with my family, AND with my work, AND with my own thoughts. I'm jealous for time because, like Kerouac, "I'm desirous of everything at the same time."

May we help our students find that for which they are "mad to live" and mad to learn. Because that is good. That is enough.

And that is why I'm hitting send right now...because this blog post needs polishing. But it's good enough.