8.23.07
Knoxville, TN
Maybe it was all those Harley’s rolling in. I mean, I’ve had small realizations seep in here and there over the last few months and certainly moments of synchronicity surfaced when Joel and I looked at each other, wordless, and smiled in simultaneous recognition. But the roaring engines brought it home for me.
We don’t have to wait for leaves to fall to view an ever-changing landscape. This landscape has a current. Though we get level and remain stationary for a time, we feel its flow around us, acknowledging we are part of it, beckoning acceptance. Like a tide rushes in and pulls discretely away, RVs arrive and park for a week or even just an evening. Tent occupants wander wearily to the port-o-johns in the early morning. Barking dogs chase squirrels up trees for days and then disappear forever. Even when our own wheels are chocked and the 3 slides protrude from the belly of our odd-shaped vessel, our obvious transience molds affinity with others. An anonymous intimacy exists among the extended family of campers. Eager to socialize, they’ve helped us improve the vague neighborly wave we’d practiced on people whose names we weren’t sure of even after 7 years of cohabitation. Judgment dissipates as I find myself sharing recipes and relationship details with those who by chance parked next to me the night before. Knowing we may never cross each other’s paths again only unites us closer in the moment and you can easily observe the singularity of each passing day.
A permanent vacation? Not exactly. It was vital to establish routines, new routines we hadn’t needed until now. After all, we were here for business. We raced around our perimeter, scoping out the local grocery store, neighboring county park, and nearest station that served up biodiesel. Where could we stock up on good beer? What about a gym? A chiropractor? Maybe we can’t live forever in the confines of 34 feet, although I’m growing into the beautiful simplicity of it all. I’m diving in and submerging myself in the comfort of just getting by. Vacuuming, for example, takes all of 5 minutes. If I need to retrieve some cold bottled water, our basement is just 2 steps down. With only 3 burners and a small oven, I’ve learned to simplify our meals, though I’m mystified by the myriad spices we’ve managed to lug over 1,000 miles. Other than that, choices are limited so you quietly settle within your parameters.
But what of homeostasis? My mother questions, smiling but earnest, why we can’t just settle down. But, mom, we tried that. We did. We settled, but not in the right direction. It wasn’t a better life, and this new life isn’t as complicated as it seems. Sure, there’s the black water tank to contend with and it’s a bitch to park, but hey. Aren’t we, after all, just creatures of habit? Establish a new habit and you fall into that groove just as easily as anything else. So it seems a bit adolescent to wander aimlessly, following only the fluid curvatures of chance. Maybe we’re just stubborn, unwilling to succumb to our age, imposing on ourselves an early mid-life crisis. But even if I come back for another time around on this earth, it will not be in my current form. I will only be me this once, so how can I let all of the other possibilities slip by unacknowledged? She just doesn’t know what to say to that.
But suburbia took its toll on us. Emerson’s notion of “quiet desperation” gnawed at me during those little spots of space when I forced myself to be present, induced by an onset of traffic jam. Acknowledging a fitful struggle at best, I couldn’t resolve my longing to divert course, to cut loose and steer my Suburu into the break-down lane and head North! Yet I stayed: Another man-made dam in a dark river deep enough to drown in. Our house was ultimately on the market for nine numbing months.
It was a large life, brimming with obligations, lists and deadlines, weighted with expectations, effort, and good intentions. But it was not our life, and our high-ceilinged walls, though dense with comfortable furniture, enslaved us. Our life was big, but our hearts were withering. Some mornings, heavily shackled and clambering to the bathroom, I couldn’t feel it beating at all. When it got to where I was looking into the mirror but couldn’t see myself, I knew it was all growing too thin. Spread out and empty, I cringed at the vacuity I had created.
Although I didn’t know it exactly as we spent days loading up the POD, giving away the furniture, the generator, and the excess clothes, I needed to reconstruct myself. Joel kept saying we needed to “decompress.” I understand what he meant, and that’s worked for him. Mostly, he’s succeeded. But for me it was more about compression. It’s a process and after four months I am still collecting the frayed edges and reeling them in. Little by little, I’m pushing inwards, reducing mass, getting denser.
Occasionally, like today, the adrenaline pumps and perks up your attention. Good Morning, America! I guess I was expecting the Hell’s Angels. I was warned they would drink a lot and rowdy up the campground once they filled every available spot. Bring it on, I thought. The ebb, the flow. But the Harley Hogs have emerged as a vibrant crew living their weekend dream. More advanced in their middle-age than we, these people are clear on what it takes to have a good time. A strong engine roaring between your legs and the promise of a soulful drive on a clear day. I guess I’m damaged goods in this respect, having survived a motorcycle accident with two broken bones and a broken ankle, but I can’t deny my attraction to that quintessential symbol of freedom on the open road. People pour impressive savings and credit card advances into building their dreams. I’ve seen it; I’ve done it. Why not a motorcycle? If it gets the job done and brings you closer to Home.
Some people get it right off the bat; they smile approvingly, sharing stories of how they almost … or how they wish they… or how when they retire…. We invariably appreciate their feedback, though I for one feel a bit misunderstood. Others, like my best friend when entering our new home for the first time raised her eyebrows and deadpanned me with, “I could never live like this,” heighten my awareness that this is not for everyone, nor should it be. But why didn’t they understand that’s how we felt, too? Were we such anomalies?
Life is different now. We aren’t who we were, but evolving representations of who we’ve always wanted to be. Isn’t that the best we can reasonably hope for? Anonymity frees us, but deepens our universal bond with others even if we don’t know their names. I’m less about me and more about Us, all of Us. I’m learning, still learning, to detach from the nit-pickiness of life. I’m less obsessed with my split ends. I’m no longer acquiescing to monthly pedicures and though my heels have gone rough, my smile has grown wide. Isn’t that what strangers see anyway? So maybe I can’t cultivate a garden or pick backyard hibiscus blooms in my nightie. My backyard no longer has a fence, and I could walk along forever calling each pebble or morsel of clay my own. A quiet
acceptance of everything permeates not only my miniscule dwelling but also the air surrounding me as I linger along the water’s edge, tripping under lazy willows because at the end of the day it’s all okay~~and I realize the (wo-)man-made struggles and the hells we create for ourselves are truly self-imposed battles. I cast my sword adrift. I wish I could have understood a decade ago that life doesn’t have to be a salmon’s struggle upstream; sometimes you just got to go with the flow and see where the river takes you.
Knoxville, TN
Maybe it was all those Harley’s rolling in. I mean, I’ve had small realizations seep in here and there over the last few months and certainly moments of synchronicity surfaced when Joel and I looked at each other, wordless, and smiled in simultaneous recognition. But the roaring engines brought it home for me.
We don’t have to wait for leaves to fall to view an ever-changing landscape. This landscape has a current. Though we get level and remain stationary for a time, we feel its flow around us, acknowledging we are part of it, beckoning acceptance. Like a tide rushes in and pulls discretely away, RVs arrive and park for a week or even just an evening. Tent occupants wander wearily to the port-o-johns in the early morning. Barking dogs chase squirrels up trees for days and then disappear forever. Even when our own wheels are chocked and the 3 slides protrude from the belly of our odd-shaped vessel, our obvious transience molds affinity with others. An anonymous intimacy exists among the extended family of campers. Eager to socialize, they’ve helped us improve the vague neighborly wave we’d practiced on people whose names we weren’t sure of even after 7 years of cohabitation. Judgment dissipates as I find myself sharing recipes and relationship details with those who by chance parked next to me the night before. Knowing we may never cross each other’s paths again only unites us closer in the moment and you can easily observe the singularity of each passing day.
A permanent vacation? Not exactly. It was vital to establish routines, new routines we hadn’t needed until now. After all, we were here for business. We raced around our perimeter, scoping out the local grocery store, neighboring county park, and nearest station that served up biodiesel. Where could we stock up on good beer? What about a gym? A chiropractor? Maybe we can’t live forever in the confines of 34 feet, although I’m growing into the beautiful simplicity of it all. I’m diving in and submerging myself in the comfort of just getting by. Vacuuming, for example, takes all of 5 minutes. If I need to retrieve some cold bottled water, our basement is just 2 steps down. With only 3 burners and a small oven, I’ve learned to simplify our meals, though I’m mystified by the myriad spices we’ve managed to lug over 1,000 miles. Other than that, choices are limited so you quietly settle within your parameters.
But what of homeostasis? My mother questions, smiling but earnest, why we can’t just settle down. But, mom, we tried that. We did. We settled, but not in the right direction. It wasn’t a better life, and this new life isn’t as complicated as it seems. Sure, there’s the black water tank to contend with and it’s a bitch to park, but hey. Aren’t we, after all, just creatures of habit? Establish a new habit and you fall into that groove just as easily as anything else. So it seems a bit adolescent to wander aimlessly, following only the fluid curvatures of chance. Maybe we’re just stubborn, unwilling to succumb to our age, imposing on ourselves an early mid-life crisis. But even if I come back for another time around on this earth, it will not be in my current form. I will only be me this once, so how can I let all of the other possibilities slip by unacknowledged? She just doesn’t know what to say to that.
But suburbia took its toll on us. Emerson’s notion of “quiet desperation” gnawed at me during those little spots of space when I forced myself to be present, induced by an onset of traffic jam. Acknowledging a fitful struggle at best, I couldn’t resolve my longing to divert course, to cut loose and steer my Suburu into the break-down lane and head North! Yet I stayed: Another man-made dam in a dark river deep enough to drown in. Our house was ultimately on the market for nine numbing months.It was a large life, brimming with obligations, lists and deadlines, weighted with expectations, effort, and good intentions. But it was not our life, and our high-ceilinged walls, though dense with comfortable furniture, enslaved us. Our life was big, but our hearts were withering. Some mornings, heavily shackled and clambering to the bathroom, I couldn’t feel it beating at all. When it got to where I was looking into the mirror but couldn’t see myself, I knew it was all growing too thin. Spread out and empty, I cringed at the vacuity I had created.
Although I didn’t know it exactly as we spent days loading up the POD, giving away the furniture, the generator, and the excess clothes, I needed to reconstruct myself. Joel kept saying we needed to “decompress.” I understand what he meant, and that’s worked for him. Mostly, he’s succeeded. But for me it was more about compression. It’s a process and after four months I am still collecting the frayed edges and reeling them in. Little by little, I’m pushing inwards, reducing mass, getting denser.
Occasionally, like today, the adrenaline pumps and perks up your attention. Good Morning, America! I guess I was expecting the Hell’s Angels. I was warned they would drink a lot and rowdy up the campground once they filled every available spot. Bring it on, I thought. The ebb, the flow. But the Harley Hogs have emerged as a vibrant crew living their weekend dream. More advanced in their middle-age than we, these people are clear on what it takes to have a good time. A strong engine roaring between your legs and the promise of a soulful drive on a clear day. I guess I’m damaged goods in this respect, having survived a motorcycle accident with two broken bones and a broken ankle, but I can’t deny my attraction to that quintessential symbol of freedom on the open road. People pour impressive savings and credit card advances into building their dreams. I’ve seen it; I’ve done it. Why not a motorcycle? If it gets the job done and brings you closer to Home.
Some people get it right off the bat; they smile approvingly, sharing stories of how they almost … or how they wish they… or how when they retire…. We invariably appreciate their feedback, though I for one feel a bit misunderstood. Others, like my best friend when entering our new home for the first time raised her eyebrows and deadpanned me with, “I could never live like this,” heighten my awareness that this is not for everyone, nor should it be. But why didn’t they understand that’s how we felt, too? Were we such anomalies?
Life is different now. We aren’t who we were, but evolving representations of who we’ve always wanted to be. Isn’t that the best we can reasonably hope for? Anonymity frees us, but deepens our universal bond with others even if we don’t know their names. I’m less about me and more about Us, all of Us. I’m learning, still learning, to detach from the nit-pickiness of life. I’m less obsessed with my split ends. I’m no longer acquiescing to monthly pedicures and though my heels have gone rough, my smile has grown wide. Isn’t that what strangers see anyway? So maybe I can’t cultivate a garden or pick backyard hibiscus blooms in my nightie. My backyard no longer has a fence, and I could walk along forever calling each pebble or morsel of clay my own. A quiet
acceptance of everything permeates not only my miniscule dwelling but also the air surrounding me as I linger along the water’s edge, tripping under lazy willows because at the end of the day it’s all okay~~and I realize the (wo-)man-made struggles and the hells we create for ourselves are truly self-imposed battles. I cast my sword adrift. I wish I could have understood a decade ago that life doesn’t have to be a salmon’s struggle upstream; sometimes you just got to go with the flow and see where the river takes you. 
