“The safest place to be in a rain storm is in the car,” I remember my dad telling me. I must have been four or five at the time. To this day, that is one of the safest moments of my childhood. Hanging onto my baby pillow, with a feeling in my belly that I could outrun lightning.
Perhaps that’s why I have moved so many times in my life. Perhaps why I have pushed to move into a new position or find a new employer so soon after establishing myself. I am not quite sure what being rooted really is, except from the viewpoint of a moving vehicle.
I am about to teach literature at FCC next semester. And am returning to a rootedness in my soul that I haven’t felt in a very long time. I am finally feeling like reading literature is a valid way to pass the time again, after years of finding it frivolous or impractical. Don’t get me wrong. I read constantly, but mostly news articles or essays – all good stuff indeed. But novels and poetry. Those were earlier loves in my life that have been superseded my weightier topics of world politics and real life issues.
I know I will always be a writing teacher, but I am actually feeling a sense of going home. Almost as if it’s safe to step out of the car now. Shelter might just reside in a book waiting to be read on my nightstand.