Liberté, égalité, fraternité

I had a dream last night in which I was in some kind of school/college setting, and everyone else was wearing blue plastic watches given to them by the school, but I didn't have one as I'd just arrived somehow. I took my place at the end of a long conference-type table with all the other students, and tried to figure out what was going on and how to catch up.

At 5am the sounds of the highway next to us started to pick up, and I woke for the first time, the dream nearly drifting away from me completely. Daylight? Why was there warm light seeping through the mini blinds? I rolled over and pried two slats apart with barely functional fingers, and then remembered … we're camped in the WalMart parking lot … the lights never do go off, do they? The lights themselves weren't actually visible as the window was covered in beaded moisture, some of it drifting in rivulets down the pane. A night's worth of breath, condensed and pooling in the window frame. I felt hungry, slightly stirred up, and a bit adrift. Should I get up? Go back to sleep? How cold is it out there now anyway? I picked up my phone and wasted some of the last of its battery life checking the weather. Summersville WV, 21 degrees, but feels like 17.

I chose to haul myself out from under the two wool blankets, cotton quilt, and sheet that keep us toasty on most nights, flipped the covers back down so both Michael and my side of the bed would stay warm and Sparrow wouldn't be covered, and padded to the bathroom, past the green-wrapped bodies of my gangly boys half falling out of their bunks. A pretend flush (you hope you've peed enough to send the toilet paper down without any added water), and I scuttled back to bed, the camper swaying slightly with each step as we hadn't bothered to put down the stabilizers for one night and were still hitched to the truck.

Back to sleep? Why that dream? And the other really bizarre one about part of my toe falling off? Really? I want to write. I need to write. I wish I could write in my head while I half-sleep in that delicious skid towards the deep trenches of rest where you're too far under to dream, and then have it magically transfer itself into a word .doc the next morning. I need to tell the stories, and need to have them read. I don't know where I fit anymore. I haven't a community. Not one I can see, or one that sees me regularly at least, and worries if I don't show up. I feel utterly invisible, except when I blog. Or Instagram. Or post on Face Book. I have incredibly great conversations at every house we stop at, and love every minute of it. Then we move on.

I bring bits of each person along with me … snippets of conversation, memories, recipes, advice, new books to read, things to pray for, and the feeling that I was truly part of their household for awhile. Let in both the heart door and the back door. All in … briefly a very real part of their daily lives, and not just walking past the warm window casting its glow into the dusk, wondering how that family lived and what went on in their house. I can't tell you how many windows I've wondered over in my almost 45 years, it's tens of thousands by now I think. And now I'm actually getting into some of those living rooms, and it's the most fascinating thing ever. A growing trail of places that I know, and people that I love, from the inside.

So why am I dreaming about nondescript school life and feeling behind? Perhaps I have an inkling that living sans-watch, as we do now, is going to make it hard to integrate again into a more fixed life. So be it, but the watch was only part of it. They'd all been together for some period of time, doing life together, and I was just arrived. It's the community that I miss I think. The knowledge that I'm a part of some greater collection than just us four, and that I have a meaningful part in it. I have no doubt that I DO have that, I just can't see it at the moment. Can't feel it a lot of the time, either. It's a new kind of lonely. It always happens, and I just now realized that's part of the process going on in my heart. The more the love, the more the potential for feeling alone. It's happened at with marriage, kids, and how this. I'm stealing from one campfire to the next, taking treasures with me, and my heart now knows exactly what it feels like to stand in Jane's kitchen and chop carrots next to the sink while she stirs the stew and I watch her neighbors run their dogs in the twilight. It knows that Erica's probably planning her outing for Wednesday, and putting Kayla to bed in the next 20 minutes. That John's puttering around his basement getting tools for some project, and Marcie's taking the dogs out for the last time before bed, shivering in the cold but not quite ready to put on a winter jacket. The list is endless, the heart is stretching yet again.

I can't see the whole picture. I feel it being stitched together though, with heart strings and prayer bits and smashed fingers and new understandings and shared lives … I just have to get my bearings a bit every time the scene changes. Figure out how to assimilate what I gained, process what it all means, and check that my heart is intact and my mind still my own. I'm a fitter-inner, and historically have played the chameleon a bit if I'm not sure how my opinions will be received. This no longer works, and in some ways the constant scene-changes are facilitating the growing tendency to speak my mind. I'm just not sure what it's doing to the whole story. The one I'm writing without words, but with my life. I like to KNOW, and this I can't. I like to feel SURE, and that's now reserved for the fewest of the few things. I like to BELONG, but am leery of being boxed in or judged. So I'm gathering up the warmest stones and most interesting bits of fireside chat and relationship gold, and praying that when they're no longer wet from the current (and tears) of this journey, that I'll find them even more worthy of carrying onward.

I did go back to sleep, woke once more to eat a banana in the half dark, and then slept again till just before 8, when a brilliant sunrise started drying up the condensation on Michael's window and warming the room up a bit.

Chalk Softly

Things take time here in Knoxville, so I wasn’t surprised it took Event Services four days to call me back.  Lorraine, with whom I spoke, seemed somewhat taken aback when I answered.  This, upon reflection, was because the voice mail I had left was in my best southern drawl, very unlike the one speaking with her.  She told me no, I could not sell my portraits in Market Square downtown, but I could draw for donations, in which case I would be considered a “busker” and would not need a permit.  Buskers are welcome anywhere there is not an Event so long as foot traffic is unimpeded.  “It’s strange,” she said “we don’t have ANY portrait artists.”

“Maybe,” I suggested, “Artists don’t like to give their work away for free.”  This was not MY feeling, however, I was stoked.  The police, who directed me to Event Services, had led me to believe I wouldn’t be able to draw at all.  Drawing for donations is something I love.  It relieves the pressure of meeting expectations and places the value judgment of your artwork in the hands of your subject and their conscience.  You never know what you’re going to get, but what you get is always genuine.  And getting anything sure beats nothing.

The next day we packed a lunch, piled in the truck, and headed downtown for the Chalk Walk at Market Square.  We had been to a Chalk Walk in Raleigh, NC about a year ago and loved it.  This would be a great way to scope the ropes for setting up while enjoying a gorgeous day out looking at art. 

The sky was blue.  The dogwoods were blooming.  We had enough diesel to get there and back.  The shoestrings we ate for breakfast were sitting well.  We found the free parking garage and just as we were getting out of the truck, Bethany says “OH NO!”  She’s staring at her phone.

“What is it!?” the boys and I say in unison.

“They’re trying to take the storage fee out of the wrong bank account; the SAME ONE that bounced it four days ago!”  This was Bad News.  Bethany puts so much time and care into juggling our four accounts that something going wrong is nearly unimaginable.  Going wrong twice is a show-stopper.  It was that stomach-dropping horror when a deer leaps out and you can’t stop the car.  Time slowed down.  I tried to breathe in the green spring air, but it was sallow and thick with despair. Chalk Walk would be the funeral procession of our happiness.

Bethany was seething hot angry tears, staring at her phone and stamping her foot some fifteen feet away.  Douglas and I stared at each other wide-eyed and frozen until Fynn, blithely unaware that the world was ending, began asking trivial questions.  “What’s that pipe for?  How tall do you think most High Top vehicles are?  We’re a High Top, right, because we parked in the High Top parking?”

We both turned to Fynn.  “Fynn, no.  This isn’t a good time to-“   THUMP!  Bethany was beside us again slapping the truck.  Matilda took it.

“There’s NOTHING we can do!  I BEGGED and got the fee waived LAST time.  They’re not going to wave it AGAIN!  I don’t even know WHY PayPal took it out of this account.  I RESET the defaults!  There’s NO STINKING WAY we can afford this!”

From some remote place, I heard my voice saying “I think we need to call the banks Right Now and see if there’s ANYthing to be done.  We’ll never enjoy this day unless we do.”

“Yeah. OK.” Bethany said, knowing she would be the one making the call, “But first we find a bench and we eat.”  We headed out of the garage in silence.  We made it half a block.

“Hey, Mom?”

“What, Fynn.”  Steel and Ice.

“Why does that sign say-“

“Fynn.”  I interrupted, “Don’t talk to Mom right now.  Walk with me."  We trudged uphill toward Market Square, the bright sunlight dimly penetrating our dark cloud.  I strode ahead, forcing Fynn to trot, as I quietly answered his continuous stream of questions.  I saw grass between buildings ahead.

“Why are we crossing the street?”

“Because there will be benches.” I pointed.  And there were.  We sat.  We prayed.  Bethany called PayPal.  We ate.  Bethany called Citibank.  I kept the boys occupied.  The grassy area was a nice little spot lined with benches, trees, and a few sculptures.  It just happened to be the one my sister had told me would be perfect for drawing portraits in.  Through the trees we could see people milling about the Chalk Walk.  After half an hour, Bethany resurfaced, triumphant.

“I didn’t realize that PayPal has a separate account for debits which is how storage is paid and that comes straight out of Citibank not 360 or TVA and the guy at Citi waived the fee but said this was the last time as long as we get the money in there by Tuesday which gives us three days but of course PayPal may have already taken out a fee and storage will likely slap us with a bounced check fee which means we’ll need to find 40 more from SOMEwhere to put in but for now the disaster won’t snowball, thank you God!”

Yes.  And thank you Bethany.  The sun was out.

Years ago, when we would hit hard times in Brooklyn, I would tell Bethany that she was overreacting.  These were merely circumstances.  Anger wasn’t going to fix anything.  This did a lot of good.  Like gasoline to fire.  The smoldering cloud of gloom would last for days, weeks, even months, and I would do anything to get away.  Hide.  I wasn’t going to let my Don’t-Worry-be-Happy get sucked into that vortex, so I would go to my studio or crawl in a bottle leaving her alone with the anger and despair.  It took me far too long to realize these were her Feelings, not enemies, and she needed me there feeling her feel her Feelings.  Not cringing or judging or attacking, just being there.

It’s hard.  It’s suffocating.  But, man, has it changed things.  I’ve learned that her anger was not because I’d saddled her with the financial responsibility but because the financial situation had gotten out of her control and there was nothing she could do about it.  “Ohhh…” you say, nodding sagely, “she’s got Control Issues …”  Shut Up.  She’s damn good at what she does and she already knows what her issues are.  I’ve also learned that what I thought was despair over our circumstances was despair that I would be remote and Absent.  Again.  That’s heart-rending.  But now I’m getting an inkling of where this could go.  The cords I’m not severing from my heart to hers go both ways, and the commitment I thought I was lacking from Bethany is now pouring into my heart through those same cords.  So, if she’s angry, I’m going to be there for every terrifying minute of it.

The Chalk Walk was a lot of chalk drawings, the more of which you looked at, the more you wanted to do one yourself.  At least that’s how Fynn and I were affected.  I really liked the shark one. 

This lady won last year …

This one was done by a grade-schooler ...

This girl did beautiful work. I don't know if she ever finished.

Beer on the moon!  This one looked even better once the sky was black, and full of stars.

Halfway through, Fynn pointed out the free-for-all section in the central plaza.  Lots of kids were drawing.  He began asking to go and draw about every three minutes.  “Let’s just look at everything first, and then we’ll see,” Bethany or I would respond.  As we were hot and the crowds were wearing down our patience, we moved through the second half faster and faster.

A table on the edge of the free-for-all area was selling t-shirts and boxes of chalk.  They also had a box of leftover chalks from those who had finished their drawings.  It wasn’t clear if these were for sale or free for the using, so we sent Fynn to ask, figuring he had the best chance of charming free ones from the lady.  Fynn returned with three chalks; white, lavender, and yellow.  “Dad, are you coming?”  Of course I was.

Douglas and Bethany chose to relax in the shade while Fynn and I found a spot he could draw.  “Dad, are you drawing?”  He asked hopefully.

“Well, are these all the colors you could get?”  Yellow, white, and lavender is a very limited palette, especially drawing with chalk.

“No, there’s a whole bunch in the box.”  Bless him.  He was only being polite, taking three.

“I’ll be back,” I said, and went and picked out one of every color I could find. 

We had fun.

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Right before we left, the UT physics club had set up a table of things they had drug out of the lab and were doing demonstrations and soliciting donations.  What a bunch of geeks!  Douglas fell right to talking with them as if he wasn’t introverted at all, and Fynn nearly dove head first into the bowl of liquid nitrogen. They geeked hard for 15 minutes and even made donations from their own wallets as we left.  I looked around.  Tomorrow I would come back and I would work for donations.

Douglas pointed out in the truck that Fynn’s knife was the most potentially violent drawing in the whole Chalk Walk.  “At least there wasn’t blood on it,” I said, “Though the drawing of Galactus showed him destroying the earth.”

“Even that,” Bethany said, “didn’t evoke the same kind of danger.  There was a gentleness to everything there.”

“Yeah.” I said.  “It crossed my mind to have him draw some chopped carrots."

lost in limbo

I've been feeling remarkably adrift for the last couple of weeks.  remarkable only in that i didn't expect it, didn't want it, and didn't PLAN for it.  queen of planning ... i'm at a bit of a loss.  slowly realizing that this trip not happening according to plan.  i hate admitting that.

it's mostly about timing, and maybe a little bit about the "what".  yes we still need a camper.  no we don't know where it's coming from.  no, we've not left yet.  when are we leaving?  when we can.  every date i've mentioned has gotten blown out of the water, and i'm rather sick of answering the question, mostly because i can't. 

this frustrating process of waiting and packing and waiting and selling and waiting and working and waiting and feeling unfocussed and pickle-headed and like my windshield wipers don't work all that well.  smeary.  squeaky.  yeah, all that.  i want the whys and whens and i can't have them.  i want big shiny answers, with flashing arrows and neon and sparkly highlights.  still small voices aren't plan-friendly.

I've been hoping that this stepping out into the one-day-at-a-time-living-on-faith life could be started with most of the monthly expenses prepaid. phone, storage, all that stuff... so the monthly faith requirements could be less. work harder at our current jobs now while we have them, in case we can't find enough work while we're on the road.  but why can't I have that faith requirement now? it's like i'm waiting to up the ante, afraid that it won't work. i can't magically turn the faith on when we pull out of the driveway. it's a mindset. a way of living. an approach to life and God and relationships that says it will all be well, that there will always be enough, and none of it is mine to worry about. ever. 

this has been my husband's approach as long as I've known him. one that I've secretly envied, but still tried to balance with enough practicality and worry and fear for the both of us. if he can't worry well enough, I'll have to do it for him, damn it.

doesn't really work all that well. sure, my practical bent is a good thing in many ways, but my fears don't add anything.  this trip?  it's miles away from practical. it bears no resemblance to a well laid plan that I can take pride in, and my signature martyrish responsibility for. it's about stepping out without any practical safety net, and seeing what happens. which is something Michael has always wanted to do, and I've never had the guts to try. and something that I know he'll regret not trying, and if I'm being honest, so will I.  it just terrifies me. 

so all this angst and frustration over not having it all together and prepaid risk-minimized? if I can't let it go now, before we leave, it's guaranteed to come right along with us. something I have to figure out how to leave behind for the most part, it's just going to be weight that I can't afford to carry with me. with us. I won't magically change my temperment, I know that, but I do have to figure out how to let it go a bit more. to leave my control in the dust. because the best (and most enjoyable) choices I've ever made have always required me to let go of my desire to control. I've no doubt this time is any different.

Onward.