The Midwest, where I live, is not known for earthquakes. And yet we’ve had a series of them recently. Nothing major, no injuries or infrastructure collapsing, but some definite jolts. The first time it happened I was in bed, asleep, at 4:30 AM. I woke up thinking I had dreamed of visiting the Deacon in Berkeley, where I had experienced my first earthquake two years ago.
An aftershock that same morning found me in a therapy session with a client, who didn’t seem to notice that the chairs beneath us rattled a bit against the wall. A third I only heard about, as its epicenter was too far east to be noticeable from where I stood.
I keep thinking I see something different in the Midwestern faces around me. It isn’t fear, exactly, more a bit of trepidation, mixed with excitement, at being reminded that the earth is alive and moving underneath our feet.