fit

Two days ago a text message pops up on my mobile telling me that Ian who succeeded me at Berengarra has died. My deputy became principal and he became deputy and then principal.

I didn’t know him much at all, wonder if he was older than I am, reflect that he and my deputy really made the school more professional in their time. I was the last of the maverick principals, following in the grand tradition of the two who preceded me. We knew what we were doing, but it was anything but orthodox, sometimes bizarre. It worked.

My current manager rings the other day to tell me I’m on probation until the end of March: they want to know if I’m the right fit for the program. Why wait three months? I know the answer. I don’t fit it at all. I’m not young and eager to change the world. I’m old enough to know that you only change those around you, those you are close to.

I’m too cynical to take any of the hype and spin in reports and submissions seriously. As a writer I should be able to peddle this shit, but my integrity won’t let me.

I hate picking up the phone and parlaying with teachers, administrators, community workers: it makes my head and my guts spin. In my thirties and forties I ate this stuff for breakfast.

Databases freak me. Yesterday after a 20 minute lesson from our admin officer I set to and enter meeting details and notes for the past six months. It’s not too bad but I’ll forget the process by the next time I make entries.

I always thought that getting older I’d handle pressure in my stride. The opposite is true. Last night I visit my friend Rock, at home on the tenth week of sick leave after ripping a bicep off the bone. With one arm he’s built a small deck and is renovating a bedroom and bathroom. He stops every hour and cleans up the mess—nothing to fall over—and moves quietly on.

He can’t believe how much he’s enjoying life. He goes slowly. He’s taken off his watch, sometimes works six or seven hours without noticing time passing. It’s called flow.

Me? I’m plodding up the escalator at Parliament Station to a job I should do on my ear, but the force has deserted me. This morning I’m packing a bag to go to the airport yet again. Not much fits right now.

I’m beginning to understand why older people opt out of the modern world. We’re from another time, another country. If we saw some good in the new world, the new order, we’d make the effort to fit right in. But there’s not much space for mavericks these days. In business maybe, but not in health or education.

There’s good in the world all right, but it’s not to be found at Parliament Station or the airport. It’s my good woman caring for me, being there for me.

Rock on.