That Fire

I'm one of those A-type-first-child personalities who grew up feeling like it was absolutely necessary to be good at everything I did. I honestly didn't feel any external pressure, but rather, a heavy sort of internal pressure to make everyone happy, to get s&*t done, to succeed. And generally, I did. It may not have come easy to me but I worked hard, really hard, and my teachers--and later, my bosses--had good things to say.

Until last year.

Last year, I got my first negative review at work. It was a few months after I had decided that I was leaving the law to go back to teaching, but still, it stung. Or maybe more than stung. Okay, it hurt.

It hurt for several reasons, including the one reason I want to write about tonight -- it hurt because it was so unbelievably and undeniably true. The oh-so-true part of the feedback was that I get "easily distracted." To be honest, I remain stubborn in my opinion that I did every assignment I was asked to do within the time frame that I was asked to do it, but I concede that the feedback is 110% accurate. And I couldn't be more thankful for having received it.

The truth is, that with the exception of my pro bono immigration work, I have never not been distracted at my lawyer-jobs. When I started at Ropes & Gray, I was distracted by my seven-month old and by trying to maintain a healthy marriage through the turbulent time of transitioning to a demanding and unpredictable schedule. I was distracted by things as small as lunch and snacks to things as significant as my grandmother being ill and dying before my eyes. I was distracted by Scott's passing and by far too many other tragic deaths that followed. I was distracted by an infant who had a never-ending ear infection and who projectile vomited on countless rides to day care. I was distracted by family struggles and celebrations, and by trying to help other people through tough times. I was distracted by wanting to always talk to my office-mate who I loved (and drove nuts), and I was distracted by the realization that when it came down to it, I hated the professional life I had created for myself. I hated the motion-sickness that plagued me on the cab-rides home from the office after midnight and I hated the absolutely awful exit gate in the lower parking lot of the Route 128 train station which often failed to open at the most inconvenient times and thus made me wonder if one day I would just drive straight through it in protest (I confirmed last week that it's still broken). Most of all, I hated that the work day (and night) made me feel like I was dying inside. Like the fire I used to have in me was gone.

Once I moved to a so-much-more-humane law firm culture, I was still distracted, then by a baby girl who I loved as much as I loved her older brother, which I never thought could be possible. I was distracted by books and even by a little bit of exercise. I was distracted by the news that I hadn't followed in years and by wide-awake dreams I started to have again. I convinced myself that everything was good again--that I could succeed as a lawyer in this new place. But deep down, I think I knew I was pretending. Then, on August 8, 2012, I became so distracted by an out-of-the-blue cancer diagnosis that I barely knew what day of the week it was or what planet I lived on.

I tried to fake it at first (not even consciously realizing that I was faking anything). I returned to the office after my first chemo infusion convinced that I would try to work--at least part-time--through my treatment. But then I was allergic to the Taxotere and had my world flipped upside down again. After that, I tended towards far-too-few white blood cells and each chemo round felt like an extremely dangerous adventure. I gave up all my corporate work and focused only on Wendy's asylum case. I couldn't find it in myself to focus on any other work beyond that. I should have known then--if not five years before--that I was wasting away in a place that I didn't belong. I was dying inside, perhaps too literally for it to even be an ironic thing to say. But I was also coming alive.

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I read the following quote in a book recently:

Since I have been open and honest with myself and with others about what makes me come alive, I have heard the most remarkable things from people--mostly dreams they have...things they would do, "if only..." If only... I love hearing those stories. Even if part of me is sad when I hear them prefaced the way they always are. The way I used to preface things.

I know now that I have always been a distracted lawyer. But I also know that this morning, I almost missed both of my train stops while finishing Of Mice and Men (I started it Monday). The entire world melted away as I circled vocabulary words and particularly-gripping passages that I can't wait to discuss with my high school English classes. I felt so deeply alive. Cancer was completely pushed out of my mind. It was amazing.

I will take a six-figure pay-cut when I leave the legal profession and return to teaching. It will be okay because Brian and I will work hard to ensure that it is. Plus, excess money, while lovely, has never made either of us feel alive. Ultimately I know that I will never review a contract or sit on a corporate conference call without a million other thoughts or ideas popping into my head and begging me to play with them. But I know that I will walk into my classroom every morning focused on what I'm there to do...teach kids about literature and history. And more importantly, help them try to discover what makes them come alive. Because Howard Thurman is so right about what our world really needs--lawyers who aren't distracted by the paint on the wall, and teachers who pack up their classrooms in June with a fire in their belly about coming back in the fall. I so miss that fire....and I so should have been working in the 45 minutes that it took to write this....