So: we’ve made it.
It’s 30th June, the school year in Northern Ireland is over, the pupils have shrieked in delight at the sound of the final bell, and the staff members have had their annual ‘staff do’. It was an exhausting year, but we got there in the end.
I’m going to admit it. I love the holidays, but I really don’t much like the end of term. Maybe I just struggle with change: it’ll be about a fortnight before I stop wanting a coffee, Pavlov-like, when I’d normally hear the bell for morning break, even if, in July, I’ve only just finished breakfast at that time. I think it’s more than that, though. I think it’s that sense of something ending. The satisfaction of the to-do list finally ticked, the work all done, is always tinged with sadness for me, because of the goodbyes. There are the students who are leaving, whom we’ve just spent five or seven years getting to know, but there are also the colleagues who are retiring, some of whom we’ve worked with for three, four, five times as long. For them, school’s not just out for summer – it’s out forever.
Staff retirement nights at my school are something special. I’ve been to so many, by now, and said goodbye to so many cherished colleagues. This year’s offered the most amazing surprise, as seven already-retired colleagues were invited back to welcome this year’s retirees into the world of leisure, rest, relaxation, and good times. It was the most amazing treat for all of us to see our former colleagues, all of them looking rejuvenated, relaxed, and reinvigorated from their years of freedom. They offered hope for the years ahead, not just for those retiring now, but for those of us who possibly don’t have too many more years to go. It was a night of laughter and tears, hugs and compliments, a lively dance floor and so many beautiful, colourful dresses. Stories were told – some poignant, but most of them extremely funny. Compliments were paid - every one of them so very sincere and well-deserved. Laughter echoed around the function room, and nobody really wanted to go home.
But I’m going to own up to something. After midnight, feeling a bit like Cinderella, wondering if my car, out in the car park, might just have turned into a pumpkin, I slipped away, quietly and unnoticed, while everyone else was on the dance floor. I hope that nobody was offended by this: I’d like to think that people barely noticed that I’d quietly disappeared.
I’ve thought a lot about it, today. Today marks my completion of 30 years’ teaching; 26 of them in my current, much-loved school. I’m aware that, next term, I’ll be one of the oldest and longest-serving teachers on the staff (I have worked out that I’ll be the fourth longest-serving!) and I do feel the sword of Damocles of retirement hovering, sometimes, above my head. When I consider things like how many of my colleagues I’ve taught, or how many of the pupils brightly tell me that I taught at least one of their parents, it reminds me that I’m certainly not as young as I sometimes feel. It’s not quite a memento mori – more of a memento senescere – remember that you’re growing old. When it does come to my turn, I know that I’ll be fine with the reality of being retired. I’ll read endlessly, I’ll enjoy the scenery where I live, maybe I’ll even go back to university, one last time. It’s the actual moment of retirement that scares me. The decision. The moving out. The wrench. The goodbyes. I simply do not know how I’ll ever be able to do those things.
School years flow past in a mist of busyness; the days, weeks and months passing as relentlessly as the daily tides. It means so much to take time, at the end of the year, to reflect on work well done, to say thank you, to feel a sense of achievement and a sense of pride in what everyone has achieved together: those who are staying as well as those who are leaving. In the last few years, I’ve loved starting to work in support of our newest, youngest teachers, seeing in them so much hope and positivity for the future of our school. Reflecting, at the end of the school year, means considering what can be done even better in the years ahead, but it’s also so vital to acknowledge everything that’s already pretty amazing. Everyone who’s pretty amazing.
30th June is one of the best days of the year. The summer break stretches ahead, like the most perfect, ideal, shiny unopened gift. Nothing has been disappointing yet. Yes, it’s raining, but the sunshine of all those exam weeks will probably return. Yes, you’re completely, utterly exhausted, but you’ll gradually recover. Everything seems possible, on that, one, magical date.
This 30th June, I’m pondering how many more landmark 30th Junes I’ll have: I hope it’s at least a few. I’ll never be that person in the colourful, beautiful dress, at the centre of the dance floor, or whooping loudly with delight. I’ll probably be far more in the background, dressed in something slightly dark, loving watching everyone else’s exuberant delight, quietly just taking it all in, before slipping away imperceptibly to piece together the jigsaw of another year. I hope it’s ok that I’m like that: occasions of celebration can be the wrong place for the quiet.
We’ve made it to the finish line. And next year, we’ll do it all again: but I’m not thinking too much about that yet. These days are for celebration, and satisfaction, and recovery, and remembering, and gratitude. What a year. What a final week. What a night. What wonderful people. What amazing times. What comes next will be shaped by what has already been.
And what has been, this year, has been unforgettable.
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