On the wall above the whiteboard in what used to be my girls’ classroom, there hangs a small homemade poster. In red and black Sharpie on green construction paper, it reads (in between a few stray curlicues) “Fear is what prevents the flowering of the mind. — Krishnamurti.” On a Saturday in September, the school building quiet of its usual laughter and recriminations, I climbed a small blue plastic chair to tape up my handiwork. None of my students ever asked about it, and I never pointed to it dramatically in the middle of a lesson. I just left it there, without fanfare or comment, vaguely thinking that its sentiment might enter the bodies of my children through some strange, slow osmosis. I liked to imagine R.’s huge eyes lingering on Krishnamurti’s words during a particularly boring day, mulling over what they meant in her life.

I am telling you these facts now (O my Best Beloved) because I am filled with fear, and I do not wish to be ruled by it any longer.

I have been afraid, for instance, to write this post, in which I tell you that about a month ago I decided to leave that classroom, that school, R.’s eyes. I have been afraid of the leap into the unknown that comes now. I have been afraid that I have broken parts of my life and myself that I’m not sure how to fix.

But I am telling you these facts now because I am filled with fear, and I do not wish to be ruled by it any longer. And this post, whether you know it or not (O my Best Beloved) is my first step.