It took a bit of time, a bit of thought, but I got those letters to the seniors written. I love the process, always a mysterious one. I never know what I will write to whom. Some are cheerful congratulations, some are hopes for the future, some are my recounting of things I remember, some are something else all together.
Funny thing is, I can never predict who will get what. Writing most made me smile. Writing several made me cry.
It’s funny to me how my heart so twists around their lives, how it found and still seeks to find ways to gain and keep traction between us. I’m not an extremely professional educator. My ways are messy, I can’t find a way to love tidily. And in summation of all of our time together, I give them these letters that say things sometimes beyond their grasp, or that speak plainly of things more drop down than most adults dare go, or that admit to dreams and visions and other side effects of life lived with a sometimes seer.
I am who I am, for good and for otherwise, and I share it freely with them, if not most of the adults in my life.
It’s sort of scary and sort of wonderful to do so. But, this kind of purposeful writing is something that I so want at least a few of them to pass on in their lives. Today, a student hugging me tight at Baccalaureate offered, “Mrs. Sullivan, I wrote you a letter, too. Are you bringing yours to graduation, that’s when I will give you mine.”
With no greater gains, it is already, a success.