He said to me “You don’t know what you just did. You saved that man.” ‘The tow truck man?’The question I thought in my head, but didn’t say aloud. I could not imagine what I had done to “save” anyone, much less the man who oddly walked up and began rambling about how I’d need to replace both headlights. Nor did I understand what the man that had just backed into my car was talking about; what I did know however, was that I needed to get to my school.
A week ago, I was riding to work, schools were closed – more like in the process of closing- my mind in a bit of turmoil and my heart unrested. I had just come off of a weekend of following fierce instructions to stay indoors. There is a virus plaguing our world, infecting many, killing thousands and we, I, must breathe slowly indoors resting in the solace of a restless heart. Away from my children who at first cheered at the prospect of being home for a few days, led away from the taxing demand of injecting our minds with constant thought and perpetual expectations. I am sure they, like me, found themselves on a solemn Sunday, searching for the sun to simply pass along it’s blessings of consistency, much like it’s rise and fall each day. Yet, as my tears fell Sunday night, I awakened to the checklist of Monday morning.
I was driving to work knowing that the Governor had mandated schools be shut down and things, routines, be changed at least for a few weeks. I don’t deal well with change. I do not do well with things that I cannot prepare for. My brain hadn’t processed the idea that I would be away, but couldn’t physically go away for two entire weeks. I can admit, I am a walking oxymoron. I love planning, structure and routines, yet spontaneity, adventure and wandering always peaks my spirit. I am awfully aware that my blessing lies in having a home to go to, yet I am also masterfully alarmed by the uncertainty that resides in my disquieting thoughts.
Most days I rest in words like plush pillows on a freshly laundered bed. I teach children wordplay so that they can wrap themselves in lettering; getting lost in stories that either they create or run to. Yet, I haven’t written in this space in 3 years, but I have kept it. Held it close, underneath my heart. It has remained my seat and imaginative solitude, the desk that I do not have, the notebook I do not carry, and the forum for when I need to stand and find a voice that even I at times struggle to hear. Yet, I speak.
“How did I save him?” I asked the man that hit my car? He responded, “Ms. your energy is good. That man kept aggravating me. I made a call for him, while we were standing there. But, you started talking to me about being a better person and how God looks at us for who we are and how we react to things. You made me think.” I made him think. It’s been three years since I’ve written; consistently. As the sun blesses me each day within this spectrum of unplanned social-distancing, I’ll strive to mimic its grace with writing.