Old Mary Rose

And so concludes my lonesome year of study: a tunnel of etchings, observations and readings. Riding the track in a rickety cart made of this little white couch and my confidence, I held pencils to steer me from lists to type written pages of research. Lecture listening translated into cursive script by warm pens held by my sweaty hand of last summer. Assistant teaching in a classroom from September until the end of May and mountains of flat whitened trees, written on and slid into plastic sleeves. I have done it. 

I weep at the end of it all in a somewhat ceremonial celebration of self. I prop an imaginary frame around my face to present my soul as it seeps from my disheveled shell. Goodbye old Mary Rose. With your big bright blue eyes and kind smile, you are a devoted mentor. I am sad to leave you. You are my living Maria Montessori, my conversational textbook, my directress. You hug me and hold my arm with your hand, while your words drag my pushy, brash tears out and onto my cheeks for your wisdom to witness. As the salty mist escapes, the heart plays its pattern, no longer clogged by a fettering fog. I hand you your rope.         

"Thank you for everything. I really loved this program." I manage to say, fanning my flushed face with my long, floppy fingers.  

I have been day-dreaming about this moment for months. When I would have my seemingly unending list of school work complete. And now it is just so. Here I am. ....But I am not free to roam, run and ramble. This is not an end nor a place to stay and rest. This is just the start line, the train station, the dock. After one year of packing, skirt shopping, list drawing, and self-study, I am prepared to embark on my odyssey into education.