A mountain high

We are in the foothills of the Appalachian mountains; the north Georgia mountains, to be more exact. It is spring break, and I so need this time off -- and away.

We were having dinner at a quaint Italian eatery in the downtown area of this small mountain village. I gazed out the window at the storefronts, and suddenly I had a rush of emotion. I am going to be a social worker. I am becoming a social worker. I am a social worker.

I don't know what brought these feelings on, exactly.

I had noticed a woman, a White woman, walking down the sidewalk holding the hand of a Black boy. He appeared to be 6-8 years old. They came into the restaurant. The child was quite rambunctious. She spoke to him as if he was her dog: "Sit," she commanded. "Quiet!"

I have a dog, and I am kinder to her than she was respectful of this child.

I found myself imagining how I might counsel them if they came to me for family therapy. It then occurred to me that this is what I will be doing, what I must do -- with the rest of my life.

A surge of joy filled my heart, or where ever such surges go!

This break is turning out to be just what I needed. Being terminally busy leaves no time for reflection. Reflecting on the reasons why I am doing all this work is important.

I'm getting it.

--Ms. T. J.

A mountain high