(This is Chapter 4 of an unpublished novel.)
The first week after Alan’s departure wasn’t too bad. I had a lot I wanted to do. It was still early June and things were growing in that wild, uncontrollable June way, and every day I spent pruning, trimming, raking and baking my face beneath the brilliant, yellow sun. Alan called me once, said should we try again, give it another shot? I said no, not much point to that. He gave me his new cell phone number; he was staying with his brother and said call if I had a change of heart.
That was the trouble. My heart. Unchangeable as a stone, gathering no moss, unmovable. In some ways it was a change of heart, I suppose, but there was no blood flowing his way, no pump or beat or pulse, so I said no, no point in that.
It was the second week, the week of my personal inventory which kicked off the real movement. I was reading a self-help book. It suggested that if you want to know who you are, really ARE, walk around your house and look at what is there. Let IT tell you. The book said to open drawers and closets, peer at pictures on walls, study labels on medicine bottles, look into the silverware drawer. I felt like a Realtor seeing a potential property for the first time, clipboard in hand. The results of this inventory shocked me.
Except for the secluded hidden beaches in the coves and corners, I did not exist in my own house. I double-checked, inching from room to room, growing anxious, even nauseated, wondering if I sublimated myself so well in the twelve-year sleep of my marriage. The house had no personality, no flair. Nothing.
Where was I?
I felt like Van Winkle, blinking and yawning, eyelids fluttering, asking what world is this? Finally, I pulled the chain that let down a hidden ladder, and I went into the attic. Somewhere up there was a box of my mementos, and it suddenly seemed oh-so-important to find it. When I did find it, it was such a tiny box that tears cornered in my eyes. I flipped up the lid and saw old notebooks, a packet of letters written to my folks from England during a six-month college trip, and an odd assortment of stuff. Some was just plain silly: a dried flower from a boy whose name I could not recall, a pop-top from my first beer, pictures of classmates with friends forever scratched on their backsides. I couldn’t call a single one friend, now, as an adult. I flipped open the ninth grade poetry project and saw:
Life will hand Mary
No harder task,
Then to know the right answer
And have nobody ask.
The space for the author said “Anonymous” and I realized that, even as a girl, I’d felt invisible. I started to jam the folder back into the box and a small page fluttered out and landed between my legs. I read my earliest attempt at haiku;
Please, I want to know
Did Jesus ever wonder,
If there was a God?
Oh desperate, desperate words, the plea of a ninth grade girl for meaning, for magic. Please. So polite, so mournful. I wanted to weep for that girl still peeking around the corners of my soul.
The morning was disappearing and the roof of the house had become a cookie sheet, the attic an oven. Sweating profusely, I left the box and it’s sad, sorry contents. I climbed down the rickety steps, folding them back into themselves and making them disappear like magic.
That’s what I had done. Simply folded myself into my self like a magician and disappeared for twelve long years.
I started lunch. Flat egg noodles with melted butter, fresh cloves of garlic, a single tomato sliced into the mixture. Tom and Emily came in to eat.
Tom stared at me as I put their plates on the table. “Mom?”
“Yes?”
He was still staring at me. “What is it, Tee?”
“Nothing. Just . . . you look funny.”
Funny–that suspicious word. Funny as in funny like a clown, funny like Jay Leno, funny like frizzy hair? Funny how?
I went to the small curio shelf and peered through the gee-gaws into the mirror behind. What I saw startled me. My face was blotchy red, my eyes looked wild, my mouth open. The creatures on the tiny shelf looked embedded into my skin like gravel after a bike accident. I giggled. For the first time, I thought I detected just the smallest hint of color rising from my open mouth. I think it was yellow, maybe gold. It was brief, hardly perceptible. “You’re right, Tom. I look hilarious. Let’s eat.”
I scuttled the self-help book and flopped it into the trash, dumped dead noodles on its cheery cover, and then sprinkled wet coffee ground over the top before I hauled it out. Somehow I made it through that day and finally, when Tom and Emily were bathed and bedded, I ground fresh coffee beans, sniffing greedily at the dark scent.
While water dribbled through the machine, I cracked cubes from a cheap, blue plastic ice tray and filled a glass with clear, distilled water. I thought seriously (couldn’t get that book off my mind) about the many pitiful pseudo-rituals I’d created in lieu of anything truly meaningful. My spirit was thirsty–metaphorically present– in these endless drinking rituals of mine. Had I ever really embraced any religious practice, I may have been lighting small, scented candles, waving burning sticks of incense, dabbing ritual water in the form of a cross on my own body. Instead I was preparing coffee with a dollop of half and half and a tall, clear glass of iced water and opening a notebook to a clear, unmarred page.
My god, I needed guidance, I thought. Should I raise the blank pages like burning sage to the four directions, to above and below, I wondered? Invoke the gods I didn’t believe in-and who didn’t believe in me?
Instead I picked up the plain, blue Papermate (the best writing pen I owned) and using plain, block letters, I opened salutations with, I want . . . .
I wrote it again.
I want . . . .
I tried again using all caps: WHAT I REALLY WANT MOST IS . . . .
I invoked Natalie’s Zen practice and repeated silently to myself–say anything, write anything, hurry, move, quicksand here, go, go on, directly to go, do not stop at go . . . .
I want sand between my toes, want to dance top-naked under a full moon, want a soul mate, damn it! I want (’S’ words only) sand, sex, spirit, strawberries, storms . . . .
Try again. I decided to be Owen Meany and use all capitals). SAND SEX SPIRIT STRAWBERRIES SEA SOUL MATE STORMS SIZZLE SERENITY SKY SENSATION SILLINESS SERENDIPITY SOIL SIZZLE
An old teaching came to mind. Be specific.
I can’t.
Then flip the coin, heads or tails.
What I don’t want is . . . . I couldn’t write it. I couldn’t write a single word.
The deconstruction of my life began at that moment. It was a Zen moment, a satori of instant recognition, and another ‘S’ word. I wrote the single word on the page before me. STUFF.
I don’t want…stuff.
I serve stuff.
The crux. The confession. The crucible.
I was getting caught in ‘C’ words now. I stared at the page and realized I serve the stuff in my life that means nothing and IS NOT ME. I polish furniture I despise, mow grass I hate . . . pull weeds, scrub floors, wash dishes, make beds. I had sublimated myself to an unmade bed.
If I was to discover the new direction of my life, I must first erase the old. I decided, then and there, we would make a drastic change. I would be like Descartes’, remove all beliefs and rabble until only the truth emerged.
I think, therefore I am.
By morning the way was clear. I never imagined it could be that easy. I gave myself one day per year. Twelve years to accumulate what I didn’t want–twelve days to get rid of it again. Alan had taken what he wanted. The rest was up to me. Not a moment longer would I spend serving this stuff. I had wasted enough time.
I mobilized the kids and told them, “You can keep three things. The rest goes. Except clothes, of course–but get rid of what doesn’t fit, isn’t liked, or is shredded.” At first they looked at me like mom had lost her mind. And perhaps I had, somewhere between a midnight dance with moon beings, and a hot trip to the attic. Nothing was clear to me except this. I had to unload a life in order to make a life. I had to go to the desert if I was to find the forest.
I was not quite rational (even about my spiritual metaphors), but once Thomas and Emily realized I was deadly serious about this, they joined the adventure.
We attacked with a vengeance, moving through the house like looters in a riot. We filled cartons with books, dishes, clothing, household wares, candles, cheesy wall junk like tin butterflies and heavy metal sconces. No, we were not packing for a move–we were dejunking. Over the days that followed, venders and traders lined up at my door and marched over the place like an army. I sold the chairs, couches, bookcases, and books. I sold the beds, bedding, and the bureau that once belonged to somebody’s grandmother. Not mine. The venders came and went while I stood on the top step and waved each load off to its final destination–to someone else’s life, not mine. With each load moving out the front door, I felt lighter and lighter.
We even cleared the entire woodshop of old windows, bagged up doorknobs, dead picture frames, buckets of nails, and yellow rolls of insulation reminiscent of my soft yellow blanket (which I kept). That woodshop load went to a handsome man named Charles who was building a recycled house outside of Belle Fourche. He caught my eye for a moment; I think it was the lean, blue-jean look, but I refused to see him, refused to be distracted even for a moment.
Had I looked, had I seen him, all that unfolded over the next three months may have taken an entirely different turn, but in that moment I was grateful somebody would haul off those bulky used windows and a mountain of bolts, nails, screws, and tools.
For twelve days I was the mistress of recycle, reuse and, most importantly, refuse. We stuffed the fists full of money into a Guatemalan book bag. By the end of the twelfth day the kids and I, now in sleeping bags on the living room floor (or on the trampoline where we had taken to sleeping on nice nights), laid the money in piles of ones, tens, twenties, fifties, and hundreds. Tom gleefully counted the piles while Emily made tidy notes in a small pocket notebook.
When the piles of money had been tabulated, Tom took his pocket calculator (oddly, one of the three items he’d kept–his father’s child) and tallied up the figures. I sat cross-legged on the floor, arms folded across my chest, feeling like a true urban Indian. “Well, how much?”
“Hang on, Mom, just a minute.” His head was bent, and I had the urge to lick his forehead, grooming him like a mother animal. I’d reduced my needs to their most basic, instinctual elements.
Emily scooted next to me. The kids must have sensed a great adventure unfolding in all this. They’d thrown them selves completely, trustingly at my mercy. And I was merciful. At least I hoped that would prove true. We’d not even kept the television. In fact, I made sure it went out the door first.
“Okay. I got it. Here it is.” Thomas raised his head and grinned widely. ”$4,828.36. Holy cow.”
I giggled at his triumphant look. To him it was a lot of money, but I knew if I marched out to buy all we had sold, it would cost me ten times that much. But this feeling, this free-falling, free-flying feeling, could not be bought for any price. I felt completely liberated. “Perfect! That is the most perfect amount.” I repeated it slowly, for effect. “Four thousand, eight hundred, twenty-eight dollars, and thirty-six cents. Well, how do you like that? The sum total of my life amounts to $4,828 dollars. And thirty-six cents.” I picked up a hand full of bills and showered them over the only two honest riches of my life. “And two, scruffy children worth their weight in gold and precious jewels.”
We had a money storm in the middle of our living room campsite, and then pinched a ten-dollar bill out of the money mess and ordered Little Ceasars $9.99 pizza pizza special special.
Money was not an issue with me. I had my summer teacher’s salary, a chunk invested in my name only and, in four more days, I would no longer have the responsibility of gas, electricity, water, or phone. I had found summer renters by placing a three-line ad in the newspaper and, one week from now, a rent-all truck would show up and fill the house with somebody else’s problems and personalities, permeating the air with their faintly colored breath-mists for the next ninety days, long enough for me to decide to go, or stay, on a more permanent basis. I thought about buyng a tipi, but that sounded too white. Besides, a traveler on the wide path of life needs wheels. I debated about going cellular on the road but nixed the idea. Did Jack Kerouac have a cell phone? Did Mark Twain? John Steinbeck?
With the $4,828.36, I cleared every credit card: Sears, Penneys, Radio Shack, Visa, Mastercard. The irony did not escape me. The money from the sale of my earthly goods covered all the debt and left me with $0.81. So my life value had just tallied out at $0.81. I felt no regret.
Then, I drove my now paid for ‘96 Nissan into a used car lot, picked out a small cabover, Toyota camper with 72,000 miles on it, traded the Nissan as a down payment on it, and financed the remaining $3,000. I debated whether to go pull cash from the investment fund for the remainder, but decided to give that ninety days as well. Ninety days from now, if the alignment of the sun and moon so dictated, I would sell or keep the camper. After twelve years, ninety days was an eye blink, a mere twitch of time.
Had I known, had I had any inkling how completely those ninety days would alter my life-I still would not have done any different. In fact, I might have hastened the deconstruction of my life even further.
By the time I drove the camper into the driveway, it was still only 10:30 in the morning. Tom and Emily met me at the door, the breakfast milk barely wiped from their mouths. Thomas looked so old, appraising the new/old camper with a steady eye, walking around it. I fully expected him to pull the latch, lift the hood, grunt and groan knowingly over the dirty morass of wires and parts; but no, that is what his dad would have done if he were still here. Instead, Thomas let out a war-whoop and launched himself behind the wheel.
“Where we going, Mom? This is cool. Can I have the bed up here? Can we sleep in it tonight? Please Mom?” He thumped his hand on the roof of the cab to indicate his preferred sleeping space.
“Yes. You can have that space. You wouldn’t catch me squeezing this old body into that confined space. Emily and I will take this one.” I touched the two cushioned benches facing off across the flimsy, pedestal table.” I chuckled at Emily’s puzzled face. “It all folds down, into a big, comfy bed. And look, I got an old room-sized tent for when we find a place we want to stay for awhile.” I flipped the lid to show the kids. The dull green beast of a tent huddled beneath one of the benches using every square inch of space.
Tom crawled out of the driver’s seat and came to sit on the bench opposite of where Emily and I were sitting. His soft, yellow, breath-mist was suddenly as vibrant as yellow flame. He looked like a gentle dragon on a maroon, velvet throne. I stared at him, at every powerful line of his young, handsome face.
God, I loved these kids.
“Mom, what ARE we doing? Where are we going? And why?”
Ah, small boy of the big questions. My son had much larger questions than his father had ever had. I already knew both of my children had inherited the same heart defect I’d suffered from most of my life. I saw it at birthday parties, school functions and gatherings when the herd instinct kicked in and other children began to swoop down on a single victim, but both Emily and Tom backed away instantly, unwilling to participate in causing another person pain. Even at adult functions, the first sign of gossip and bad-talking some unsuspecting soul, my kids asked politely to be excused.
Thomas was staring at me now, waiting for the answer.
“So, where are we going? Oh, what a question, my son. To the moon? To the sea? To the mountains and forests? I know we will cross a desert when it is at least 129 degrees.”
“Mom!”
“Okay, okay. I don’t know.” I said. “I don’t know where we’re going, all right? I want to try life without all this baggage. We’ll be like a snail carrying our house with us.”
“But what will we do?” This came from Em–dear, serious, sweet, silent Emily. She was the white lace on the deeper red of my heart; Tom the center, Emily the border.
“Listen, guys. I don’t know. I only know that I’ll know when it comes. Does that make sense?”
They nodded solemnly. I suppose if their minds had been more firmly pointed toward adulthood, they would have listed all the reasons this adventure made no sense. They’d sound like my mother, talking about big city dangers with a small town voice, and of course, the foolishness of towing two young children along on such an adolescent adventure. This I knew because my mother, bless her heart, had planted herself in one small section of my brain.
But they were kids, and kids go along.
Emily had never breathed color. I still didn’t know what that meant. Could it be the color that she breathes is outside of the spectrum of knowable colors and the tiny receptors in my eyes were unable to perceive such subtle, delicate hues?
Later, after the kids had drifted into the floating sea of dreams in the camper outside my front door, I pulled the yellow blanket around my shoulders and padded barefoot across the chill, damp, ground and climbed onto the trampoline. I stared bravely up at the sky.
The moon was illuminating the fast-moving clouds, on adventures of their own, I supposed. How I wished this taut trampoline canvas was a magic carpet. Or I wanted the giant cottonwood in the neighbor’s yard to use its wide, strong arms to lift me up and cradle me next to its heart so I could feel the beat pulsing from deep within the earth through a million yards of root system. Since the load of stuff had lifted off, I was now fully aware that I wanted a lot. I wanted it all. But my all had nothing to do with this mundane world and its mundane stuff. On this I was crystal clear.
What stayed hidden beneath the course I’d chosen, however, was the silliness of believing that whatever was missing in my soul had anything to do with what I had accumulated outside of my soul. The two were not related. This I was to learn again and again on this journey. But for now, I wanted to feel stripped to the bone, naked on the face of the earth, my heart, soul, and body drained like an engine of its oil, ready for something else to slide in and grease the emptiness.
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