It’s a Matter of Semantics

My husband is a thinker, just don’t tell him.  He shudders at the thought (pun intended) of reflecting or journaling.  Sometimes I wonder if accusing him of thinking would be an insult (Did I mention he’s a teacher?).  Just the other day, while leisurely riding bikes and chatting about the last day of school, I had an epiphany.  Our conversation went something like this: 

Tim: The last day of school is always weird.  I couldn’t believe how quickly teachers left right after checking out. 

Me: You mean, like, they turned in their keys and bolted out the front door?  

Tim: Yeah, I don’t know how they just leave their classrooms like that.  

Me: Maybe they’re just super-organized. Hint, hint.

Tim: But I like to go back, sit down, turn up some music, and pack my stuff away.  I guess I pack the memories at the same time.

Me: You mean reflect? A little smile creeps across my face.  I know how he feels about this word.

Tim: No, it’s different.  Just remembering each class, good lessons, bad lessons, laughs we had.  I don’t know, it wraps up the year.  

Me: You were so reflecting!  Did you meditate too?

Tim: Ommmmmm . . . (both of us laughing)

Tim always jokes that the right and left sides of his brain are connected by a little dirt path, and mine, a superhighway.  However, this couldn’t be farther from the truth.  He’s a thinker, a contemplator, and he has an entire committee up there solving the world’s problems.  The idea of reflecting, per se, may be a matter of semantics.  He definitely won’t choose to write his thoughts, and he may not verbalize them either.  But if you look closely, you’ll find them safely embedded in a song on his ipod playlist.  I’m willing to bet that in the moments he spent sifting through papers and signing yearbooks, that little committee was also orchestrating next year’s first day performance.

Tags: relationships, small moments