The cold, the wind, the rain, the ice, the snow: January's hallmarks have always had a profound grasp on my moods. Cycling through old blog posts and journal entries, January stands out as one of the most nostalgic months of the year. And by that I mean my nostalgic tendencies tend to flare up like a bad case of gout whenever the new year rolls around. I find myself looking back on the "old days": last year I looked back upon my days in Dayton, hitting the town with Carly and Jessica, that old troupe of koalas, cats, and owls; this year I look back to all those days at the Claypole House, those days of immense hope and joy, those days when Rob and Mandy were still around, when I was passionate about work, when I felt like my life was moving somewhere. Everything sorta hit a brick wall in 2012: the whole lymphoma scare set off a chain reaction of paranoia that continues to raise its ugly head every now and again. Coming through the storm and out the other side, some things are clearer while others are far more vague.
This time last year I wrote a post about my thirst for rebirth, a rebirth spawning from action rather than hope on its own accord. There is such a thing as an empty hope, the sort of hope encapsulated in the image of a broken, worn-down man sitting on his ass cutting himself with pots (did I just make a Job reference? Sure did, and without effort). Countering such empty hope is active hope, the sort of hope that fleshes itself in actual movement. Taking steps, making change, moving towards goals. This time last year I didn't really have any goals, just a vague idea regarding the course I wanted my life to follow. Now, at least, I have an end goal: become a history teacher. Weave together my passion for history and my passion for teaching into a career where I make substantially more than I do now, avoid the cubicle, and do what I love (knowing full-well, of course, that there's no such thing as a "perfect job," and even a career rooted in one's passions is prone to all its difficulties and disappointments).
Brandon came over yesterday after work, and I told him about how I withdrew my application for Norwich University and am currently investigating other Masters degrees for education. I have a couple schools picked out and have been researching them. I told him how I was pretty bummed about not going to Norwich: the decision to look elsewhere was born out of financial practicality more than anything else, and though I've sought justification for going back to Norwich, I just can't do it. Although I would love their program--the vast majority of the classes center on those subjects in history that I find most fascinating--it's just not practical. Brandon comforted me, pointing out that I've always been the sort to "study on my own," and to do so well, and that even outside a Master's in American History, I could probably, in due time, school some of the graduates.
This time last year I craved rebirth, and now I'm actually pursuing it. It's a good feeling, but there's always doubt: "What if this is just another debt-stacking maneuver? What if it comes to nothing?" That very well may be the case, but I'm hopeful: there's only a 2% unemployment rate for the degree I'm looking into, and currently there's a shortage of teachers in Ohio, especially in the Cincinnati area. To bolster my resume I've been tinkering with the idea of becoming a substitute teacher following this summer: there's a shortage of them, too, and the minimum daily pay is still more than what I make now. It'd be good experience, and I could possibly secure a position with a school district when my graduation rolls around.
I'm at The Anchor and I have to poop.
So that's the end of this post.
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