20140816.0745

It is the last weekend before the next term of teaching begins, and I am somewhat stunned by the whirlwind of activity that has happened and is about to happen. Much has been done, and much is yet to be done, and I am concerned that I will not be able to attend to all of it.

I am not entirely worried about the teaching itself. While I am teaching a class I have not taught before, it is in a mode with which I am quite comfortable; literature classes can usefully follow patterns, so that even if I am not wholly familiar with any one set that I will be teaching (in this case, general literature, insofar as there is such a thing), I am at ease with the manner of teaching. I read quickly, and so I will not be in too much trouble if I have to cover new materials quickly.

I *am* somewhat concerned for the other things that I get to do. I am at work on a number of projects, including the freelance work, and I worry that the time my teaching requires--not only in the classroom but in preparation and grading--will detract from them (and, in the case of the freelancing, the money earned from them). Too, with the beginning of the new term comes the beginning of the job search season, as colleges and universities will be publishing their upcoming openings in short order. The job search eats time and money, as well, and teaching (even at the college level for those of us in the academic humanities) offers little enough of both.

The situation is familiar to many, I know. Who does *not* feel that there is too much to do and not enough time in which to do it? When is there ever *really* enough time? But I am not whining. I have no intention of simply stopping and letting all things pass. I have *every* intention of doing the things that need doing *because* they need doing. That I take the time to voice such worries as I have is more a means for me to cast them out of myself than anything else. On the page, they no longer gnaw so much at the insides of my mind. Holding things in does me no good; I have never been the kind of person who can repress a thought or feeling, tamp it down until it is ignored. When I have tried, I have not found peace or serenity or even a working acceptance of things; what I have found is deep and distracting annoyance, and I cannot encase it in a soothing pearl.

In truth, I doubt how well works holding things in. That a problem is not admitted or is not named does not mean it is not a problem, and pain long endured becomes a norm that does not receive the examination it ought to. Things were not better; they were simply less open. It smacks to me of deception--and is not lying a wrong thing to do?