These past two weeks I felt like I was hit with the John Steinbeck truck of symbolism. It felt like every conversation pointed in one direction, unlike Steinbeck it wasn’t the recession or migrant workers this time, but had to do with putting down roots. From my new friends to friends I’ve known for years, it seems we are all struggling with the idea of what it means to set roots.
The idea of roots has always scared me. I grew up in a very stable home. My parents still live in the house I grew up in. For me, that was never something I wanted. There was so much in the world I wanted to see and explore, and vacation weren’t satisfying enough for me. Owning a home still frightens me. Not because of the payments associated with it, but with the idea that I would be tied to some place without being able to pick and move if I wanted to. It took me until I moved to San Francisco before I stopped giving myself a time limit on how long I planned to live in a city. That was a big step for me. Don’t judge.
My friends see roots as stability and adulthood. It scares them to think of moving, or taking a new job after they’ve been in one place for a few years. It’s the fear of the unknown. I understand that. It’s hard to see a different life when you’ve identified yourself with something for so long. Trust me. I know. But having that identity be taken away — hello unemployment — you realize what is important about roots is not the location but what you bring with you.
I don’t know if it’s because I’ve decided to move a significant number of times (try four states and five cities in four years) but my roots are in my experiences, my family and friends that I’ve taken with me. My roots come in a potted plant — easy to move and keep hydrated. I know I am different from generations before me. I won’t have the job security my parents had — it looks like they don’t have that anymore either — and rather than focus on having roots that are in city or a place, mine will be in the lessons, skills and memories I’m building along the way.
