Eight—usually my favorite number—has lost its appeal to me today. Eight is the number of days I have left in Dublin. While going home to friends and family and attending my recognition ceremony for my credential are things I greatly look forward to, I am thinking about the beautiful place and brilliant people I must leave. This is what is breaking my heart.
Eight is also the amount of days that I know where I am going and what I am doing. After that, it is an unknown abyss. In the past I have had school to look forward to. This time I am going back to nothing set for the future. I will be in the competitive hunt for a job; a job that is—well—who knows where. In part because of the “Enron“ state of the economy and in part because of my undetermined state, I have no idea where I want to teach or if I can even find a job. In a perfect world, I would have learned Gaeilge in the four months I was here, passed the Gaeilge test to be able to teach in Ireland, and been offered a permanent teaching position at the school in which I am currently student teaching. However, the world is not perfect and, unfortunately, it is time for me to move on from paradise.
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