I said this already, out loud, twice, during school today: “It took a lot of years, a lot of effort, a lot of luck, and the alignment of the stars themselves, to get to today. And it’s the happiest I have ever been.”

Please understand that I live and breathe for my children today and for always, of course. I am speaking professionally – the thing that consumes nearly 16 hours of my daily life from August to June. The last two years have been the hardest teaching years. The hardest. Someday I might try to articulate that more precisely, but not today. Today is for joy, and I have missed this joy, this spark, this lightning bolt of energy, so bitterly that I’ve considered more than once that I might have to find a new profession before this pandemic is all over.

But today. Today is the happiest I have ever been as a teacher, and that is saying a lot.

This semester, I am teaching college-level Creative Writing for not one, but TWO hours during the day. Can you believe it? Just me and 40 of my new best friends, sitting around tables, reading Anne Lamott, being inspired by samples from Rudyard Kipling and Mark Twain and Molly Gloss, and writing gorgeous sentences about mundane moments.

I almost can’t articulate what this feels like. Planning for this class feels like going on a long-awaited vacation. Reading the research I need to best structure this course for new learners feels like beach reading – easy, lighthearted, interesting, and fun. Writing my curriculum map is like designing my very own adventure theme park. I’m as excited to practice writing with them as I am to read whatever pours out of their fingertips.

Compounding my joy, the response to Day One has been overwhelming. This is an actual sentence from a student today: “This is already my favorite class I’ve ever taken.” Um, yes. Yes, you are speaking true words. And also, me too.

There will be work, I am certain. Grading papers is no joke. Just ask Last Semester Sara who taught Honors Composition and graded 74 essays at six different intervals throughout the semester. But I know this – workshopping with creative writers every day, twice a day, for the next 18 weeks is going to save me.

To get here, I needed a Master’s in Creative Writing, the faith and backing of a school district to make it possible for me to get it while still employed full time, permission from Minnesota West to teach it concurrently, and 40 students who persevered through the foundational class and still liked writing (and me?) enough to sign up for 18 more weeks of it. See what I mean? Stars, aligned.

It’s the happiest I have ever been.