"& somebody told me that this is the place where everything's better, and everything's safe"

 The first day of school looked a little different today. I talked about hand sanitizer at much more length than I'm used to. I covered my face with a mask during assembly. I tried to remain at the front of my classroom. As one of my sweetest students walked by and offered a hand I had to say, "I'm sorry, kiddo; I can't high-five you, but I wish that I could." 

School looked different today, and that could very easily make me sad. It has; it does. I've gotten lost in that sadness, that loss of normalcy, that wish to go "back." But as I sit in this classroom now, this bright, comfortable, book-covered classroom, I feel so incredibly lucky. My kids were here today - set their backpacks at these tables, attempted to tip in these chairs without being scolded, popped in after lunch to grab things they'd forgotten. 

Sure, there are a lot of things that I don't like about "the new normal," but how can I possibly get lost in that? When I got to open my door and let the kids inside my classroom today? Got to welcome them back? Got to listen to Julie talk excitedly about her new note-taking pens? Got to light the autumn candle so my classroom smells like comfort. Whatever kind of normal exists, I got to welcome the kids home today. And that was so much more important than inconvenience of sanitizing the desks once an hour.

Teaching cool stuff to cool kids makes me a better human being, and I had the privilege of doing that today. I got to stand up in front of the classroom. I got to hear snippets of their summer adventures, to talk about the books that we'll read together, to reassure them that their independent reading projects have never killed a student before, so they'll likely survive it. 

They nodded and smiled, joked and complained, told stories and asked irrelevant questions, and it was the best day I have had in months. What a beautiful thing it is to do what you love. Often times I take that for granted. I lose patience with the incessant questions or the tapping of a pencil on a tabletop. Not today. Today I felt lucky to have them here. I felt lucky to say "don't tip in that chair please," to remind them not to interrupt, to see the smiles on their faces, and to hear their stories.

This classroom, empty and quiet now, heard the chatter of teenage voices today, and while five months ago it made me sad to sit at this desk in the quiet, today it holds the fresh echoes of a brand new school day. And even if it's just today - what a blessing today has been. Something hopeful existed here today, and that's what I want to focus on this year. I want to remember how lucky today feels. 

This place, this room that is designed with a very specific purpose, got to do what it is intended for: it got to welcome home the kids who belong in it. It missed them. I missed them. Despite the precariousness of the future, today was important. I need to remember that, moving forward. No matter what happens, no matter how hard we have to work or how inconvenient it is - the kids in the classroom today, with their eye rolls and their lovely brains, deserve absolutely everything that I can give them. 

I think I needed today. The different look of this school year doesn't matter: the kids do. Mask or no mask, social distancing and sanitizer policies considered, we are so lucky to be here, to teach these young people to be good, smart, strong humans. I have a renewed appreciation for this place and these kids. I'll try to hold onto that feeling for as long as it lets me, and at least for today: it is well with my soul.