When I woke up this morning, my job description included teaching Special Education and Grade 10 Applied English. We’re six or so weeks from the end of the semester, so I assumed I would continue apace through June. Not so. By the time school started this morning, I had become a Literary Arts (aka Writing) teacher. (And also, of course, because teaching is a little crazy, I’m still a Special Education and Grade 10 Applied English teacher.) I teach at an Arts Magnet school, and one of our teachers can’t finish out the school year with this class. I have been asked to step in.

Am I ready? I’ll admit that I’m nervous and also pretty darn excited. To think: I started this blog a mere two months ago. Two months ago I challenged myself to actually start the writing I’ve dreamed of doing; two months ago I started sharing my thoughts in public; and today here you are, reading this. And here I am, getting ready to teach writing. Is two months (plus umpteen years) enough time to call myself a writer? It’s going to have to be.

Here’s what I know: Yesterday, the crocuses in my yard bloomed. They’re sneaky ones, those crocuses. We’re on the shady side of the street, so things take their time coming out. One day, the yard is completely brown and dead-looking; the next, purple and white blooms appear, fully-formed, seemingly out of nowhere. I know that they did not spring from nothing: they’ve been pushing up through the warming earth, making their way skyward long before I am able to see. They’ve put up tiny green tips under the leaves, sheltered from the cold, testing the air. And when it’s finally time to blossom, they have no reason to hide. The blooms are exuberant, wholehearted, and suddenly it is Spring.

Here’s what I think: I’m a shady side of the street sort of writer, coming along in my own time, tentatively testing the air. Am I ready? Not sure I have the choice. Once Spring arrives, it’s time to bloom.