Goodbye Teaching, Hello Snake

I saw a bluebird so bright he looked like he’d been painted with a highlighter. Pelicans circled overhead and a heron fished beneath the footbridge. It was hot for December, 75 degrees, but still the sort of gorgeous day that makes me glad I live in the deep south. The college’s semester ended Thursday of last week. Along with it, my teaching career in the physical therapist assistant program wound down after nearly four years. As with almost all goodbyes, my emotions ran through a spectrum of extremes. It ended up being a horrible day, my worst-ever as an adjunct instructor, but not because of anything to do with it being my last one. The sourness of the day’s events stuck with me through the weekend and woke me up more than a handful of times. That plus the realization that I’m now down to one regular job— my PRN position in the physical therapy department at a spinal rehab center— brought more than a little introspection. It’s also time for us to re-up our ACA health insurance for next year, and as usual, the choices are horrible and the costs are outrageous.

Freeing up more time to focus on my book (which is due to the publisher on April Fool’s Day!) seems a little crazy at best and terribly indulgent at worst. I’m a worker, a wage-earner. I come from a family of hard workers. I’m not accustomed to only having one “real” job, especially when that job is PRN. As I chugged into my fourth mile down the Florida Trail, I thought about the idea of a real job, and why I can’t seem to believe that writing a book qualifies as one. Perhaps because being an author doesn’t come with a 401(k) and sick leave? Because there are so many unknowns? Or because I’m afraid of getting what I want?

The birds and trees and salty air practiced their expert therapy on me as I stopped at a bridge to take a few pictures of nature’s beauty. I still haven’t replaced my iPhone 4, in part because of dumb drama with Verizon, but its camera and other vital parts work most of the time, and it didn’t fail me on the bridge. I snapped a couple of bad selfies and some decent landscape shots, then turned back to the path for the final mile to my truck. The words hovered like a cartoon thought cloud above me. Health insurance. Tax deductions. Predictable paychecks. Time off. Book tours. Sales. Marketing. I sped up, deciding to sprint the rest of the way so I could focus on my body rather than my mind.

My shoes made scuffing sounds as I blasted my way along the crushed-shell-lined path, and I felt the mental fog recede. One by one, the words in my thought clouds gave way to clarity. I breathed loudly and sweat soaked my eyebrows as I experienced a sort of emotional renaissance on the trail. Freedom became the only word above me, and it felt good. I glanced at my Garmin and saw that I was on a 6:48 mile pace, fast for me these days. My next stride felt like flying and I smiled as something rustled in the scrub alongside the trail. Then I was in midair and aware that the tree root under me wasn’t a tree root at all, but a young water moccasin, and he lunged up toward my ankles with his mouth open wide.

Life suddenly went into slow motion and I twisted in midair as I saw his fangs coming at my right ankle. He hadn’t been coiled— just been chilling longways— which I guess could account for his lack of striking power— but he was quite a bit off the ground with his mouth wide open as I yanked my leg away. I landed inches from him and almost fell. I’d been relatively hauling ass, and my midair dance hadn’t been easy at that pace. I never took my eyes off him, and his head stayed elevated, stare focused on me, jaws opening and closing in warning. I regained my balance without landing on my ass, took a few steps away from him, and whipped out the trusty iPhone 4 for a picture.

I wondered if the tree root that wasn’t really a tree root had been some sort of sign about my effort to evaluate my life, then decided I was just a dumb runner on a trail in snakey Florida. I was lucky I wasn’t dragging my snake-bit ass back to my truck. I slowed to a cool-down pace the rest of the way and studied each tree root with extra caution. My goal for the day was to add 1,000 words to my book, and as I sat on the tailgate of my truck and pigged out on Harvest Crisps, I remembered that I’m lucky in many, many ways, and that 1,000 words is nothing but a few letters strung together to form the foundation for the rest of my life— a life that could be short if I don’t worry about the right things and roll with the little things.

Song in my head: Parachute by Chris Stapleton