Roots hanging loose

Years ago, riding on a train across Poland, I wrote a poem called “Roots hanging loose” that described that out of body experience I tend to have when on the road. A call from the Driver this morning reminded me that once again, I am hanging loose with no roots. It’s been two weeks since I left home and there have been seven different beds with an average of two nights per bed. That’s seven different rooms, seven pack and unpacks, seven changes and hauling of suitcases, numerous loads of laundry on the fly in different machines.

Weariness sweeps over me. But beyond the weariness is a sense of not being connected anywhere except maybe to a keyboard.

That’s not to say that I am lonely. I’ve had wonderful conversations along the way with new and old friends. Lots of deep connections and rich encounters. And travel in the northeast in October can only be described as a feast for the senses. Crisp days, brilliant color, sweet smells especially when it rains and the leaves get ground to a golden slurry underfoot. We’ve seen frost and warmth, the ocean and lakes and rivers, woods and meadows and fields. Mist rising off rushing water, cows grazing in quiet fields, deer shyly dancing on the edges of the road. Despite a few traffic jams, travel has been fairly smooth.

And people. Eager students who want to talk about their spiritual walk. Hesitant students who have lots of questions. Faculty and administrators who share their hearts and lives and offices. Hosts who graciously open their homes and provide those beds. None of it do I take for granted.

Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to stay in the same place all the time. Would I get bored? Would I be able to maintain deep relationships with people I saw day after day, as deep as those I maintain in quick visits and phone calls and emails? I’m sure it would happen, but somehow it is so far out of my realm of experience that I have a hard time getting my mind into that way of life.

I wouldn’t miss the changes. I would welcome the personal space. But I would miss the people, oh the people, and the challenge. No former students dropping by for a theological debate. No fresh faced young men picking my brain on music and art. No gracious older men and women sharing the breakfast table or popcorn on a Sunday night. No young working women pouring out their dreams and ambitions and frustrations.

Maybe I wouldn’t be myself. Roots hanging loose.