Reconciliation

9.5.07 Knoxville, TN
It’s no wonder my Muse had abandoned me. She was repressed, emaciated and pretty much fed up with my callous handling. Looking back, I don’t blame her. I can’t even recall exactly when she packed her bags and slipped away.

What is a woman without her Muse? I recall feeling numb, submitting to the overdrive in which my life was constantly running. Full speed ahead. I was a writer and a teacher; I never wanted to jump on the fast track, but there I was, trudging through 60-hour work weeks and commuting twelve hours beyond that. My Suburu begged for oil changes, but even for her I was too busy. After relinquishing most of what had previously defined me, I prided myself on creative multi-tasking. Colleagues marveled as I entertained conference calls, tweaked staff schedules and scarfed my Lean Cuisine linguini while still managing to answer their impromptu questions. I maintained an open-door policy and an internal psyche shut-down. And it seemed that no matter how much of a bonus I landed, I was drowning in debt. Life got complicated fast, and I gave it free rein.

Women are passionate, throwing ourselves, hearts first, into what we do. We love a good cause and set our aspirations high, extending in all directions to help others when we can. We also tend to neglect our own needs. Save those long walks and quiet reverie for another day. Frantic phone calls to the few women I could still call my girlfriends were scheduled in during rush hour slow-down on the interstate. We were comforted by each other’s chaos: managing careers that had taken on lives of their own, mortgaging houses and leasing cars, having babies or, in my case, birthing butterfly gardens. We were emulating the Superwoman model while cursing it on the sly, mollified by the elegant illusion of suburbia.

Joel begged me to leave my job, but I was no quitter. (Besides, look at how much I invested in these new suits!) I forged ahead until one Sunday morning he sat me down. There was laundry piled, dishes soaking, a garden in need of mulch. But I sat and listened. I think we should try again. I instantly knew what he meant. Eight years ago, we shared a dream: we longed to explore America by highway and byway, slipping in and out of those little towns you never saw on TV. By simultaneously searching and stripping away, we expected to shape our authentic lives. We saved up for a 32-foot motor home and after months of preparation headed out of Florida with campground jobs awaiting us in Tennessee.

Blissful liberty emboldened us. We did it! We were on the road. Then, the refrigerator leaked and buckled our newly-laid parquet floor. I cried, but we repaired it. Then, the engine’s flywheel broke a tooth and we couldn’t restart the coach after fueling up at midnight in the Everglades. I disliked sleeping in the parking lot of Jimmy’s Garage, but we did what we had to do. But when the engine caught fire just south of Tampa, we sat stunned on the side of the road. Our savings were depleted before we had even left the state. An ensuing year spent grounded at an oceanside trailer park oscillated between grim and comical. The novelty waned quickly, and we were worn out from being broke and confined. This was not our vision of freedom.
Now, he wanted to try again. Older and wiser, we had accumulated seven years of equity in the house. Why did we still long to do this? Were we reclaiming our deferred dreams? With what little imagination I could still summon, I envisioned days that didn’t revolve around daunting lists and deadlines. I wanted to explore freely and interpret the world around me. I wanted a full night’s sleep. But what was I willing to give up for these luxuries? Nothing I owned or experienced seemed worth hindering a more inspired path.

So we did what any responsible 30-something couple would do: we devised a timeline and set realistic goals. Selling the house was a must. After all, a large portion of our debt stemmed from endless home improvements. We could recoup most of that at closing. Attending weekend RV shows helped us assess prices and determine what type of vehicle would accommodate full-time camping. Joel, who had fortunately chosen a career in the medical field, investigated travel job opportunities. I embarked on a liberating purging process. What I couldn’t part with went into storage and would face reassessment just before the big move. Furniture became the enemy. I wasn’t going to let my belongings encumber me. In fact, we decided to offer the house up furnished.
Nine months passed before we claimed our new minimalist lifestyle. But, lo and behold, it happened. Family was nervous, friends were surprised and cats were skeptical. We bought our 37-foot RV, sold my beloved Suburu and paid off credit cards. We carefully selected our possessions: my new closet was two feet wide. To Joel’s delight, I packed up or gave away 20 pairs of shoes. Our entertainment was simplified: listening, reading and rambling around new landscapes. I figured if we removed the frivolous minutia from our lives, we could widen our lens and refocus on living. We didn’t know what to expect but extended our arms wide in anticipation. Babes in the woods of greater Knoxville, we were surrounded by mountains that just about knocked me out. My senses reawakened. We had finally made it to Tennessee.

“Won’t you get bored?” People have inquired. This concern forces a smile every time. It’s time to reacquaint with all the subtle blessings I had neglected and celebrate self among nature, waking up to the beauty of early morning meditation in the woods, my new backyard. My mind soars as I wander a new city. I observe the nuances of character that people display and welcome their friendliness to a curious stranger, trying to absorb the language and gestures. At the campground, it’s no surprise our transient neighbors seem disarmed and approachable; they all have a story to tell. I’m starting to feel connected. The enthusiasm for life’s mysteries has resurfaced, and wanderlust calls. I vow to honor simplicity for what it is: blissful opportunity. I practice ridding my mind of the nonessentials, shedding other people’s expectations of the good life, and listening. Turn the volume down, and Muse will visit again.

Getting back to writing is hard work, requiring retraining and patience. After wearing blinders for so long, I strain to observe the details around me, but it helps that everything beckons for attention; cicadas roar as I write, and the kaleidoscope of environment ever turns. In this way, I create a happy nest to hasten the Muse’s return. I cajole her with aimless morning walks along the Tennessee River, murmuring to her that it’s safe under the tall pines and poplars at our campground. There’s nourishment enough for us to coexist. Some mornings I light candles in her honor, showing her that, though I had doggedly tried, I cannot thrive without my Muse.

Published in Skirt! Magazine October 2007 issue

Thadra Petkus is an English teacher and freelance writer. She has recently moved from South Florida and is currently traveling throughout the U.S. with her boyfriend in an RV.