(. . .part two of this post)
So after learning the secrets of prosperity and manifesting my own destiny, it was a foregone conclusion that Sally, the Kona blue Ford Mustang GT Premium, would be mine. I have visualized the overnight congratulations letter arriving on my doorstep this Monday or Tuesday, and am already considering my options. I can’t help but think of practicality — while Sally is gorgeous, shiny, and full of blue-sky, oceanside, summer spirit, I just can’t see roughing her up on a dirt road, like the driver in this picture. Maybe with my lifestyle, a Ford Explorer would be the better option.
In any event, now that I have visualized my new ride into being, it’s time for phase two of manifesting my destiny. My therapist believes that I can visualize myself into a happy place, and the Law of Attraction gurus are all in agreement that thought equals destiny — that we each attract into our lives what we most believe in and think about.
So Sally is a done deal. All I have left to figure out is what I’m going to do once the keys and a check for $9400 is in my hands.
Resuming my kickback position on the couch, I close my eyes and wait for my imagination to start playing. Twice, it takes me to a place I don’t want to go, but it is Saturday night and the moon is pale gold. . . enough of that.
With its romantic leanings nipped in the bud, my imagination goes wandering down Jane Street, a long stretch of road dotted with coffee shops, farmers markets, art kiosks, and hundreds of people I’ve yet to meet.
I see myself parking Sally on the side of the road, under the shade of an old Sycamore. I grab my backpack, and then open the passenger door so that Hanna, my faithful dog, can walk along the street with me.
At the coffee shop, I get an iced coffee for me and water for Hanna, and then head to the park across the street to soak up some sun. There’s a young couple pushing their daughter on the swing. The mother is wearing a faded Obama t-shirt. I want to ask her how she feels about health care and other issues seven months into the administration.
A teenage boy sits on a bench nearby, looking aimlessly into the sky. I wonder what he is thinking. Even from a distance, he looks sad. And familiar.
As I watch Hanna roll in the grass, it strikes me that the boy is not that different from images I recently saw on photojournalist Maisie Crow’s web site. Her photographic series, “Love Me”, as well as her videos, tells the stories of people that are often forgotten. I poured over her work for hours the other day and thought — not for the first time — that somewhere in-between survival, raising children, climbing, falling, and scraping by, I missed my calling. I have always wanted to tell the stories of people, like those in Maisie’s photographs, as well as those who have always been The Others in my world.
I get up from my place under the tree and look up and down Jane Street. I wonder: Why can’t I talk to the 16 year old runaway and the 86 year old farmer who sells his corn on the side of the road? What is stopping me from visiting people at art fairs, beaches, and flea markets — in soup kitchens, night clubs, and skyscrapers? What is holding me back from taking to the road with a video camera, a laptop, and camping gear? From writing by the light of a campfire, and getting a little closer to the higher spirit that I feel every time I’m near an ocean or mountains?
I walk across the street, and the woman selling tie-dyed t-shirts and hemp bracelets smiles at me. We strike up a casual conversation about weather and art, and then I ask her — what’s the bravest thing you’ve ever done? She tells me a story so wonderful that I can’t wait to write it down.
I grab another cup of coffee from the shop, and head back to my car. It occurs to me then that there’s more to America than Jane Street, and more to to be had in this life than specks of comfort and mounds of fear.
It occurs to me that over the years, I’ve traded in every one of my dreams for what amounted to a roof, four walls, and inconsistent comforts. I’ve ignored my urge to run, and instead capitulated to the voices that told me that my dreams were impractical, improbable, and of no use.
I take a deep breath, and then look at Hanna. She seems to know. She jumps in the back seat and stretches herself out for a long ride. I take a sip of coffee, and start the engine. . .
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