The only memory that daily reverberates into my chaotic hours in the classroom, is of our night snorkel trip.
In recent months—or maybe years—I’ve decided to try and make it a habit of doing things that scare me. Sometimes those choices are as small as continually trying mustard on a sandwich even though I know the odds are it will make me gag. Sometimes those choices are as a huge as moving across the country to teach in one of the poorest and roughest and lowest performing schools in Mississippi. In Mexico, those choices included swimming with the sting-rays and going night snorkeling.
Our day snorkel trip had been challenge in its own way. I blame the time when I was two and was bit on the bottom by a crawdad in a lake in Tennessee—large bodies of water with lots of little creatures make me less than at home. So the big blue ocean and me in the middle of it floating around looking at all the little creatures that could potentially bite me was a bit out of my comfort zone. But I did it and loved it. The reefs were incredible. The fish were every color and beautiful. And there was something deeply settling about hovering on top of this other world with only the sounds of my own breathing as a soundtrack. Minus the sunburn to the back of my legs, I was so grateful to have gotten up the courage to jump off the boat. Then, the friends we were traveling with suggested another snorkeling excursion—at night.
Yes, I had loved it in the daytime. But in the ocean, in the dark, was a whole other set of worries and fear. I tried to reason my way out of it with a few concocted excuses like how expensive it was or how fun the discoteca could maybe be (I already knew it was really lame…), but I’m always a sucker for “when else in your life will you have an opportunity like this” lines. And, I knew if I was this scared of it, I probably needed to do it.
So we wandered to the snorkel shack, geared up and got on the boat. The sun was just starting to set and the boat ride out to the Palancar reef was unbelievably breathtaking. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen the sky that many colors at once. Then the hum of the boat engine slowed and my little pounding heart raced nearly drowning out our guide’s instructions. It was still light enough to see pretty clearly as we waddled to the back of the boat in our flippers. I jumped in, looked around and turned on my flashlight. We started our swim away from the boat and out into the endless black.
It was amazing. The colors of the coral and the fish are more true without the refractions of the sunlight during the day. The sea turtles feed at night so it’s not hard to spot them ascending and descending in a slow but graceful dance. The lobsters and crabs along the sides of the reef seemed oddly astute as they sauntered, ignorant of our presence. And there was something magical about my little flashlight illuminating all these otherwise unseen worlds.
The only moments of our hour long journey when my stomach turned and my chest tightened were when I shined my flash light away from the reef right below me and out across the water. The little light was nearly instantly swallowed in the darkness, and I would suddenly remember how infinite and vast and unknown the ocean actually was.
And that is the feeling I face at the sound of my alarm clock every morning, in my most desperate moments between 7:25 a.m. and 3:00 p.m., in the numb melancholy of a lot of afternoons and evenings, and in the racing, anxious thoughts as I try to fall asleep each night.
Like the night snorkel, there are some really beautiful moments in my new life—both in the classroom and with these friends who are quickly becoming family. But if I glance away from the immediate moment for even just a second, the impossibility of doing this for the next two years nearly instantly swallows my hope and strength. This—living here, teaching here, praying here—is by far the hardest and maybe scariest thing I have ever done.
Yes, my kiddos are only five and kindergarten could be all songs and stories and colors. But I had not really thought through how much the battles of their little lives would storm into my classroom. They don’t know how to “use their kind words” instead of their fists. They haven’t yet learned that they are capable of learning. They can’t yet articulate what “being good” means other than “not being so hardheaded.” Many of them are already behind—not just academically, but socially and emotionally and developmentally too. Not to mention how hard it is to watch and hear stories about their siblings and aunties and cousins who aren’t much older and are facing more adult life scenarios and coping with a harsher reality than any pre-teen should know.
So like the night snorkel, I’m trying to keep my little flashlight pointing straight down. I’m trying to train my eyes to see into the little nooks and crannies of the reef to spot the beauty I know must be there. I’m trying not to dread the lurking unknown or the infinite vastness. I’m trying to pray for the vision to see the most true colors of patience and wisdom and hope and love for every moment of my day. And I’m trying to remember to keep breathing slow, deep breaths in the rhythmic prayer “it is good.”
