I can see the Baltimore Harbor out my window. And I never thought about the word harbor much before I spent several Saturday mornings with a cup of coffee contemplating the view outside. Harbor, a place of safety from the sea's vicissitudes.

My Dad frequently asks me if my ship has coming in yet. To which a year ago I said, "It's not coming for another year," or "The only ship I'm interested in is the one that's going back to Texas."

I didn't know, truth be told, what the ship would look like. A little while ago I wrote that I was in need of a rebirth of wonder, and related also that I'd finally seen Baltimore as a beauty. Maybe those two things are unrelated, and maybe a dog didn't really wink at me in the elevator last Friday, and maybe my noticing a sign that said "Good Luck" was a funny coincidence. But this is what the Baltimore Harbor looked like from my window the day my ship came in, flying every sail and ringing every bell.

I've taken a job that will lead my feet out of this city. I'll no longer be neighbors with Poe's remains, I'll not go to sleep by the blue light of the Bromo Seltzer Clock Tower, nor watch the fireworks at Camden Yards. In just a short while, I'll never have to throw myself on Highway 40 West to drive to Edmonson Village where the children are waiting for teachers and food and love, and their own rebirth of wonder.

I know there will be more to say, eventually. And that as always it will be complex. But for now, I'll say this: When I first got to Baltimore, I dreamed of sleep. I wrote to friends and told them I wanted to visit them and just sleep. I dreamed of deep, dreamless, delicious sleep, that was so absent amid the work, and the overwhelming nature of it.

Yesterday, after telling my principal that I was leaving soon, I came home and slept the sleep of angels, so good that it nearly tasted crisp and cool. I'll sleep it again tonight, and I'm sure the night after that. And when I wake, I'll be, in some form or fashion, headed home.

I've heard it said that I haven't blogged in a while.
There are a thousand and 1 excuses - I will now list all of them:
1. It is winter and my fingers are too numb to type.
2. Spending vast amounts of time with 10 year olds has rendered me incapable of adult thought.
3. The hamster that runs on the wheel that generates power for my computer died.
4. My double life of teacher/super hero leaves no time to write - where's my cape?
5. I've been spending free time analyzing Joni Mitchell lyrics - "Oh Canada," indeed.

...

Enough? Didn't think I'd really write 1001 things...that would be a James Joyce move, and that ain't how I roll.

I read a poem once by Ferlinghetti, and it's refrain was "I am waiting for a rebirth of wonder."
That line lodged itself in my brain today like some well marked arrow shot from the bow of a better angel. I am in desprate need of a rebirth of wonder.

And still in all, I've got great peace in my heart and gratitude as well - I start my day with thanks in my heart, and close my eyes the same. There's peace in the day's labor, though the labor be not peaceful, but more like one of Turner's scrambled-egg seascapes.

I complained once about a lack of inspiration, that perennial malady of every would-be artist. A friend said that when there is a lack, you must make your own.

And lately, I've come to think that the core of your heart is truly what determines your reactions - there's not a new idea under the sun I know. But I've been carrying my peace with me, and that makes up for that lacking wonder in the dirty, dangerous, deviled hallways of my school.

...

There's no love lost between me and Baltimore. But last week I came over a hill to see the city bathed in the rainwashed sunlight that rides in on the storm's coattails. It made me catch my breath, as beauty should, and I looked for the longest time at the light that looked so fine and clean. It made Baltimore, ancient Southern belle with drooping skirts she may be, look new and young.

It was the light she stood in that made her beautiful.

Ain't it true for all of us. It's the light we stand under that gives definition to our features, that softens our edges, or deepens the shadows within us. It's the light we stand in that gives us our shape.

There's wonder enough in that thought to carry me through winter yet.