Happy September, friends! A modest calendar proposal for your consideration:

September, not January, should start the calendar year.

We can keep the party hats and fancy dress and noisemakers. And still pretend we know more than about two verses of Auld Lang Syne. And I’m pretty sure we can enjoy cocktails on a beach on August 31st without freezing our bits off.

Give it some consideration, and we’ll talk when the Gregorians ask for my opinion on the calendar year…

September always feels much more like the start of a new year than January. The start of the school year syncs our collective watches. Everyone hits stores in search of at least one new outfit for that first day. Kids and parents refresh backpacks and lunch kits and stationary supplies. Friends who were off traversing the countryside, or just hiding indoors from the heat for weeks at a time emerge and embrace.

Rhythm returns.

Glorious, glorious rhythm.

Like all recent Septembers, this month has been a wash of nervous excitement and sadness. Sadness for the end of summer days that stretch on forever and are filled with biking and swimming and monopoly and movies and popcorn and sleep outs under the stars. Excitement for all that could be in this coming year. And nerves, for well… school.

The nervousness is our own, and sometimes reflected in our children. We wonder who their classmates will be, what friendships will be strengthened, which ones may fade, and which new relationships will be forged. But mostly, we wonder over teachers.

We have been incredibly fortunate to have such fierce allies in our efforts to form and shape our kids. We have had exceptional teachers who know their curriculum like a dancer knows his routine, skillfully weaving art and passion into which once was drudgery and study and immense effort. Teachers who knew themselves. Who studied our kids with curiosity and kindness, trying to figure out how to best reach them. We have had teachers who have loved our children as if they were their own, who have cared for them as best we know how, on our best days.

This year, my son has one such teacher. A teacher that my daughter had previously, whose name still brings a smile to her face. My son was pleased when he found out who his teacher was. My daughter was overjoyed.

However, I am aware that this is the start of the school year, not the end. We are excited about our son’s teacher, but it may be a little premature to break out the bubbly. This is a different year with a different class, and of course, a different child. There are no guarantees that my son will connect with this teacher as my daughter had.

Still, it is a relief. Every child needs a teacher, and it might as well be a great one.

And our children have many teachers. These teachers may be parents who home school, bravely intersecting the advantages and pitfalls of familiarity. They may be Girl Guide leaders who volunteer hours of their time each week to ensure that young women know themselves and see a world bigger than their own. They may be the soccer coaches who know that our sons and daughters can run faster, can kick harder, and call it out in them. Who can cheerlead them on when they score the game winning goal or let in a weak shot. They are all teachers.

Since I work shift work, September is the re-introduction of solitude. On days off mid week, or the morning and afternoons before a night shift, I find myself alone once again. September is catching up on podcasts and audiobooks as I sort laundry. September is long walks with my dog alongside the river. September is stretched out on the hammock, opening the books that are half finished or just begun or strongly recommended over the summer.

Because just as my kids are starting something new, expanding their minds and their skillset, I want to be learning too. September is when I start to ask “who is my teacher”?

In many ways, this is the easiest question in the world. Everyone is your teacher (if you’re a student).

The podcast in your ears? Of course. That book your reading? Obviously. Your job? I certainly hope so.

What about those who know you best? Your co-workers, your friends, your kids, your spouse? It may be the most difficult to be a student among those you’re closest to. Those who are most familiar to you can be the hardest teachers to learn from, and the best.

Even your own self construct can be your teacher. Your experiences and memories, endlessly waiting for you to examine and learn from them. The things that give you great joy, and the things that frustrate you. The words and looks and subjects that trigger you. All data. All teachers, calling to you to learn from your own experience.

Now, I love this notion. I believe in it. I look for it, and at my best, I ask the question “how are you my teacher” and try to watch and listen for the answer. Come every September, I set up my podcasts and books and conversations. Just like a music playlist, I attempt to curate my own educational curriculum.

It doesn’t mean I’m especially good at it.

Can you see the problem that I have? Did you catch that I have many, many unfinished books to occupy my time and hammock? Do you think it’s possible that I might skew my learning towards that which I’m already comfortable? Or that I might spend my time foolishly? That I might occasionally feel crushed under the weight of responsibility for my own curriculum? Or that I might (occasionally) leave things half finished when they become hard, or boring, or cut a little closer to the bone than I’d like. That I might simultaneously know myself well, and still not know what I most need to learn?

As children, we annually rely on these angels (and yes occasionally, demons) who curate our curriculum. Teachers who guide our practice, who give us opportunities we would not choose for ourselves, and feedback, so that the next attempt, the next paper, the next experiment, the next hypothesis, is better than the one previous. Isn’t it strange then that this role is removed, as if we were done learning after high school. Or graduate school. Or postgraduate school.

By the time you have kids of your own going to school, it is largely assumed that we are no longer students. As mentioned, many of us are teachers ourselves, whether in title or not. And of course we spend so much time posturing, pretending we aren’t still novices in so many areas of life. As if life was something simple, as if learning could not occupy all of our days and then some. As if we would ever stop being the student.

Of course at some point it is expected that we have become self learners. This is a central theme across disciplines in our post secondary, post graduate and masters programs. But even if we are exceptional self learners – curious, inquisitive readers, with the skill set and access to the best peer reviewed content, how do we avoid our own blind spots? Who cheerleads us on after both success and failure? Who will lead us to where we do not want to go, but need to?

What I need, is the same thing my daughter and sons need. I need a teacher. And so (I’m guessing) do you.

I need a coach that tells me I can run harder. I need a fellow writer, who asks if I’m still journaling daily. I need a fellow parent who can notice when I’m shorter than usual with my kids. I need a life curriculum that is not entirely self selected.

This is the point where a more experienced writer might lay out the next steps for you. They might tell you how they acquired such a mentor or teacher. How they worked together to create a life curriculum to shore up their weaknesses, expand their strengths. They might lay out their 12 rules for life.

But I’m not that writer. And this post, is about the lack, the need. So that we might be hungry, attentive. So that we might swallow our pride and sign up for that introductory art class. So that the next time we notice a fellow writer’s post, we ask them about their method. So that we might ask a seasoned runner if they’d be willing to join us on the path. So that the next time we see a family who respect each other and communicate well, we might ask what books they’ve read. So that we might give permission and access to our lives to those who are wiser than ourselves, a little further down the road, and most importantly, willing to be our mentors and teachers.

Because we are all students. And we all need a teacher.