I breathe, therefore I blog.

As the years progress, our lives evolve; we see our families, our surroundings, and ourselves changing. We are powerless to stop the change and, some years, rest knowing that change will eventually come. In my life I can count on a few things: Summer brings a tan (it also means thumbing through curriculum resources and evening walks), fall brings a fresh start (marked by new students and a clean classroom), winter brings depression (from crashed expectations), and spring brings hope.

I desperately want to count on family traditions, as well. I’ve always believed in and longed for solidity of tradition. If it happens a few years in a row, I expect it to happen, and expectations are pre-meditated disappointments. I’m feeling disappointed. My mother informed me that they are going away for Thanksgiving. Her information served as a reminder that my sister wants to go away for Christmas. She wants to break our traditional activities for the hopes of a ”white Christmas.” Her selfish desire for a white Christmas means that my nana and papa will be left in Livermore to spend Christmas Eve alone. I hate that idea. I hate the holidays.

I long for real tradition. I hope that, some day, I will have my own family. I desire a home where we can create our own traditions and make them meaningful.