Moving to the Volunteer State

I confess.  I am a muddling, below-average volunteer.  For years, I've pointed to my career (teaching) or my pursuit of a master's degree (library science) or the work of raising my children (now nearly 18 and 21) as excuses when approached by others to lend a hand.

Mostly, though, it's been a combination of selfishness and my fear of a full calendar that have kept the do-gooders at bay.

Fortunately, last school year provided the fodder I needed to start doing things a little differently.  Feeling confined by a career that so many devalue and criticize--including those who work within the profession--I sought a way out of my 7-to-4 self. 

Yesterday, among the low hills of the prairie, I was tucked into a ravine clotted with Sycamores and Elms, my cheeks ruddy with joy as I encouraged a broken line of runners to keep up the good work.  And when the runners ceased, I could not help myself, letting loose a string of guttural turkey gobbles and peacock songs, giggling to myself that this is the place I want to be.

Who would've thunk that it would be Sandhills and Brome grass, Tiger Beetles and Sunset Maples that would save me?  Thinking back, though, what else could make a human feel more alive than the million beautiful beings that are not human themselves?

I have been saved this year by returning to my roots--to the elements, the land, its plants and creatures--and have found a new self along the way, one that is less defined by what I do for a living than how I go about making a life.

I think that's why I'm happy to start giving back a little, finally.  Yes, my master-naturalist's certification requires me to volunteer.  But those geniuses behind the program know something that I hadn't learned until recently.  They knew that, there, standing on the prairie or hunched over in the back room at the zoo, I would be doing something much richer than maintaining a status.

There, among the grasses and Tiger Beetles, I would begin to write a new chapter of my life.  And my legs would hum with the joy of being connected to something much larger than myself.