Today, I gave Elisabeth back her very first journal, in which she wrote loving tributes to unicorns, hamsters, and me. Well, except for the time we went to Circus-Circus. Apparently, I was a lot of fun that day — until I wasn’t. “When we got home, mom was a GROUCH! So I went to my room because she was very unpleasent.” Twenty years have passed, and I don’t remember that day at all, and she probably doesn’t either, but somehow I wish I could take it back. I prefer the time she was asked to write about her favorite hero in fourth grade and she wrote about me. What does your hero do, the teacher’s handout asked. “She takes bubbles baths and makes spaghetti,” my daughter answered.

At the time, I was managing the advertising of a major hotel-casino. One of the perks was free entertainment and dining, and I often took Elisabeth to see acts like David Copperfield, or to tennis matches, or to five-star restaurants. She wasn’t impressed with any of that as much as she was with bubbles and homemade meatballs.

Now she’s a woman, and sometimes it’s hard for me to grasp that. Sometimes it just hits me that — oh my God — I helped make a grown-up human being! I look at Elisabeth, and she looks so beautiful and complete, and so full of young energy, that it aches.

“You’re not going to cry, are you,” she asks whenever she sees that my heart has become overfull and my eyes have gotten misty.

“Of course not,” I always reply. But then, of course, I do.

*

I met Connie Burke on Twitter. She’s a social media manager for GM, and she’s as passionate about her job as I am about writing. She’s also the proud mother of two grown people.  I approached GM because I knew from the blogosphere that they had done a lot to assist various networking events for women. Remarkably, when I explained my idea about embarking on a journey to gather stories about life in America today, Connie not only immediately understood its purpose, and how GM could play an important part in it, she understood me.  She also understood women like Veronica, who said, “Joining you on this trip is a chance for all of us to wake up, to dream, to find our America, and to know that yes, we are strong enough, smart enough, brave enough to change.”  Or Deb, who said, “I’m following you, step by step. As a 40-something with a sophomore in high school, I know well those feelings, and a hunger for a journey.” Or Laura: “You give me hope that my life as both middle-aged woman and mom can continue to grow and change and inspire.”

Having read my work, Connie also knew that I had been a loyal Ford driver for most of my adult life. “I want to change that,” she said bluntly. “I want you to experience our products, because I think once you do, you’re going to be very impressed.” From that statement, an idea was born – my journey will include test-driving as many makes and models of GMC/Chevy cars, trucks, and SUV’s as possible in the course of my year on the road. You all know how much I love to drive and how attached I get to my vehicles, so this will be very exciting for me. Will I become a GMC/Chevy convert? I don’t know. Connie made it clear that GM wants only my honest opinions about the vehicles I drive, and I wouldn’t be comfortable offering anything less, so this will an adventure within an adventure. A Storied Journey as well as A Test Drive Across the USA.

My adventure starts Monday with a GMC Yukon Denali Hybrid. I’ve never driven a hybrid before, and am curious how it will perform during the first leg of my journey, which includes a brief stop in Iowa, before heading to New Mexico, then Arizona. I have some wonderful people lined up to interview, and can hardly wait to begin!

My new website, Finding My America, is also launching on Monday. This site will automatically redirect to the new space, but I will have links available for those who’d like to read the archives here. I don’t think you’ll want to, though: the best stories are yet to come, and I don’t mean that in a clichéd, slogan-y kind of way. I plan on writing stories that matter – that have meaning to others – and that, when they’re put together as a whole, will really tell the story of life in America in a fresh way.

Bubbles and meatballs, my daughter once said. Today, for me, it’s not about a job, either. It’s much more personal. It’s about taking my passion for writing to the road, meeting people whose stories have not yet been told, and creating new ones of my own.  It’s about connecting, evolving, changing, and blazing new trails.

All starting Monday! My bags are packed, my apartment is nearly empty, and that mist in my eyes? It’s not from sentiment, but pure happiness.

So I headed out the door, wearing my baggy USC sweats and I Love Lucy housecleaning scarf, and still singing along to Beth Hart’s Soul Shine.  I looked, I’m sure, like a slightly deranged but deliriously happy house frau.

Of course, I stopped for coffee first, because a nice, creamy espresso makes shopping the cold, humongous aisles at Home Depot a much more pleasant experience.  And there, sitting in a corner chair at Caribou Coffee, with one  hand on an unopened book and the other holding a paper cup of coffee, was a neighbor of mine from thirteen years ago. Not just any neighbor, but one I had been fairly close to while we were both in the trenches of single motherhood, school, and trying to carve out careers for ourselves.

Her short yellow hair was uncombed and even from a few feet away I could see the smudges on her eyeglasses. It seems we both left the house in a state of disarray, and I laughed to myself, wondering what happened to the days neither of us would even go to the grocery store without makeup on. Obviously, that was a phase we’d both outgrown.

She jumped up when she saw me, we squealed and hugged, and the first fifteen minutes of our conversation was filled with wide smiles and child-pride stories. Then it was time to talk about us — what we had done, where we had been, and where we were headed.  Suddenly, the laughter faded, replaced by an intensity that was all at once anxious, hopeful, and wanting.  It was as if a thousand “I Need” vines had sprung up around us, each of them thirsty and reaching for the sun — but they weren’t cloying at all — instead, they were just there, aching a little bit, and desiring relief, or something more.

We had both spent 20+ years raising children as single parents, and neither of us regretted that, but when our kids left home we both found ourselves feeling displaced and somewhat at a loss. My neighbor imagined that she’d have something like a second youth — the freedom to do what she wanted, when she wanted. Perhaps she’d even fall in love and marry again. I imagined that I’d travel the world and write stories along the way.

“For years, you’re just consumed with creating this life for your children,” she told me, “and that just doesn’t turn off when they’re gone. So you keep doing what you’ve always done. . .even if it’s empty. You have a routine. It’s dull, but it’s familiar. A few years pass, and you realize you’re not even awake anymore. You’re just existing. You’re numb.”

“Yes,”  I replied, “That’s exactly how it was for me, too.  It’s the waking up part that’s painful. You look around and wonder what opportunities there are at this age. You worry about time you’ve wasted and things you should have done differently. You know you need to do something different, but so many things seem out of reach or impractical — ”

“And I don’t know about you,” she said, “but I’ve gotten scared. Like maybe I’m not as strong as I once was, or as energetic. I worry that other people won’t value me as much at this age, and the opportunities won’t be there.”

She told me that, despite her fear, she was enrolling in a Masters program for teaching. I told her about my upcoming cross-country journey. We then laughed at ourselves and pumped each other full of warm encouragement.  Two forty-something, empty-nest women who were waking up to changed lives and new possibilities. Both of us simultaneously understanding that we needed so much more than memories of motherhood and faded, underpaid careers to get us to the next level of our lives. Both of us a little afraid, but still willing to take risks and dream big.

We hugged each other goodbye like two sister-soldiers heading off to different battles. I ordered another latte and left to finish my errands.  I wasn’t even out of the parking lot when my brakes failed. As in, they were almost completely gone. One week after a full inspection, two new tires, a flush & fill, and an oil change. Six months after new brake pads. I very carefully turned around and drove the mile home. Tomorrow, the tow truck will come and I’m pretty sure the mechanic will tell me I need a new master cylinder.  It don’t come easy. . .you know it don’t come easy.

I’m still holding out hope that an automobile company, like  GMC/Chevy, will sponsor my trip. Yes, I have been a Ford fan for thirty years, but I can change. I can envision replacing the old Bronco, Hank, with a sturdy Yukon Hybrid or a Sierra I’d name Ed. Ed would be a much better travel companion — certainly a much more handsome one –  but if it ends up being Hank and me, that will be okay, too. My wing-and-prayer trip will lose a few feathers, but it’s still on by October 12 even if (God forbid) I have to give up my coffee habit and live on crackers for awhile. Dream big, yes, but prepare to live simply — one of my professors told me that when she learned I wanted to be a writer, and over the years I’ve come to understand exactly what she meant.  There are rarely any overnight or immediate successes, but you have to keep pushing, hoping, and challenging yourself even if the only reward for all your efforts is the work itself.

I will be putting together a short book of stories as a fundraiser very soon. Everyone who has already donated to this trip will receive one, regardless of the amount donated. I truly appreciate the support and am excited (and relieved!)  that so many people have offered accommodations and other assistance along the way. This trip would not be possible without the internet, and the interest shown here and on Twitter and Facebook.

Okay, it’s back to packing, cleaning, singing, and counting down the days. You gotta pay your dues if you wanna sing the blues, and you know it don’t come easy. . . But it will come, I know it will, because I’m just that determined that nothing will stop me.

Comments are open.

People have asked me if I’m nervous about my upcoming journey, and of course I am, but no more so than I’d be about staying here wondering about when, how, or if I was ever going to be able to live out my dream of traveling the country to meet people and write stories. I was half-hoping (okay, a little more than half) that the Ford Motor Company would like my idea enough to sponsor me with a more reliable vehicle than my ‘86 Bronco, but I got the no yesterday. I was a little bummed since I’m a huge Ford fan but there is an upside. Having a sponsor usually means having to tread a little more carefully, keeping in mind that their company is also part of your endeavor, and that their customers may not always appreciate what you’re doing. While I don’t plan on Glenn Beck-ing any of my subjects, it’s freeing to be able to write anything I want without considering the effect it might have on a sponsor.

Besides, Hank’s feelings might be hurt if I left him behind. Yes, I have that kind of attachment to my vehicles — the kind that gives them names and personalities. Hank is a rough and tumble kind of guy, a little rusty, but very loyal. He never fails to start, and though he may not be as quick or handsome as he once was, his engine still purrs and his heater still works.

I have a lot of work to do before Hank and I can hit the road. There’s an apartment to disassemble, packing to be done, loads of stuff to give to the Vets and the Lupus Foundation, and oh yes. . .the surprise packages I’m giving away here. If you haven’t entered my blog-naming contest, please do. The contest ends this Sunday.

I sincerely thank everyone for their support, and cannot wait to get started on my new adventure!

Update 9/20 – Comments now closed. Winners being chosen and will be notified tonight!

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. . .

My therapist suggested I use the power of my imagination to induce a little self-hypnosis at home. Maybe I could find some peace by visualizing something that made me happy.

I came home to a pounding, sweltering, 86 degree apartment. With the air conditioner on the fritz, and a half-dozen workers outside putting on new siding, it was like my own mini-Gulag. I took an ice-cold shower, threw on some shorts, and then went to retrieve my noise reduction headphones from the closet. A book fell to the floor.

My landlord, Sharon, is a proponent of the laws of attraction. She sent me this book and its companion CD last year. I listened to the CD the same way I listen to the nonsense spouted by intellectually-bereft new-age gurus like Byron Katie. Few things chill me more than thoughtless bromides like Katie’s “I am the perpetrator of my suffering – but only all of it.” I’ve written about the tyranny of pop-psychology before, and won’t repeat myself here except to say that no, I don’t believe that if a madman stabs your child to death, and you suffer, that you had a thing to do with perpetrating your feelings of loss and grief, not even a little bit. I also don’t believe that your failure to “think positive” caused your house to be robbed, your cancer, or your flat tire on Hwy 101.

Anyway, the book fell, and I decided to read it before self-hypnotizing myself to some happy, quiet, cool place that was far away from the pounding hammers and nauseating heat of my reality. It took me about five minutes to get through all 59 pages, in which “the secret” was revealed as: Give (tithe) so you can receive; open yourself to receiving rewards and other good things; you can receive anything you want if you accept it mentally; your thoughts make your world; your  thoughts are what you subconsciously attract to yourself; let go of the past, etc., — and if all of this fails to bring you riches, success, and happiness, it’s only because somehow, somewhere you’ve not really mentally accepted good as your due, and are hanging onto some attitude that is rejecting being blessed.

Ah. Think it and be it — I know it well. I spent the years from my teens into my late twenties reading books about how to fit in, get ahead, make friends, and succeed. I chanted self-affirmations, developed a firm handshake, and learned that making other people feel good made them feel good about you. I envisioned a room of my own and a life spent stoking creativity. The reality was quite different which can only mean, according to the laws of attraction & seed-of-faith theories, that I didn’t believe enough.

I got up from the couch to make some juice and check my email. Marlboro had sent me a reminder me to enter their 100 Days of Summer sweepstakes. (I know people think it’s somewhat hypocritical that I’m a health food freak who smokes, but hey — just because you have one unhealthy habit doesn’t mean you should slack off and have ten).

The prize on day 75 was a Ford Mustang GT, which rivals only the Eddie Bauer edition Ford Explorer as my dream car. Yes, I like my Fords. I’ve had a Focus, a Ranger and, in better times, a big Ford F-150 that made me feel like the queen of the road. This year’s economic hell has me downgraded to an old Ford Bronco that needs work, but never fails to start and run.

I laid back down on the couch and started thinking about the prosperity book I’d just read. The first law of attraction was that in order to receive you had to give. And although I think it’s bad juju to tally up mitzvahs I did, and pleasantly found that I’ve given more in the past few years than I’ve received. I should have stayed with that thought, but instead — as usual — I had to ask why. That’s when I remembered my somewhat arrogant tendency to jump to the rescue, even when people don’t ask. I have a helper personality — I probably would have made a good butler or personal assistant. I like fixing things and finding things. So I’m not sure those mitzvahs count.

Then I thought about Ford. And Marlboro. Two brands that I’ve been loyal to for almost thirty years.  Surely that counts, and if the law of attraction is true — that your thoughts dictate what you receive materially — well then, I’m definitely winning that car, because I think about Ford every time I step foot on my rusty siderail, and I think about Marlboros at least several times a day.

I’m mentally accepting that this Kona blue 2010 Ford Mustang GT Premium is mine, along with the $9400 check that completes the grand prize.  I expect that the notification of my win will be delivered via overnight mail on Monday or Tuesday. I haven’t decided if I’ll keep Sally (that’s her name) or ask to exchange her for a Ford Explorer.  I can easily visualize me and Sally navigating the narrow incline of the Pacific Highway — taking the long way to visit friends like Suzanne, Danny, and Kris — but I can also see Hank and me finding a sponsor, and taking off on a year-long journey of meditation, people, adventure, and discovery.  Either thought makes me deliriously happy.

(To be continued).

Several years ago, my car died in the turn lane of a busy intersection. I got out to push it, hoping that some good Samaritans would join me, but instead some guy in a red Firebird behind me started to honk. Apparently, I wasn’t pushing my car through four lanes of traffic fast enough for him.

Not long after that, my roommate Nancy had her car die on the freeway. Three men came to a screeching halt on the shoulder of the road to help her. “Well,” she said as some sort of peace offering, “you really do look self-sufficient.”  I’m brunette, Nancy was blonde. I’m 5′6″, she was 5′2″. I weighed 150, she was 115 even with PMS. In other words, compared to her I was an Amazon. The funny thing is she was a lot more handy than I was. She knew how to change flat tires, hang ceiling fans, and program the remote. I didn’t even own a hammer or screwdriver before she moved in — the heel of a shoe and a butter knife sufficed for the few things I knew how to do.

I tell this story not to repeat the didactic message that looks can be deceiving (although they often are)  but to say that sometimes the internet makes me feel like a Nancy. I write a blog post and snap, like magic, some people pull over on the information superhighway and respond.  Blog posts and responses sometimes lead to other interactions, and bonds are formed. . .and this, in conjunction with encouraging and enthusiastic comments, often leaves me feeling like a cute cyber waif rather than a burly, self-sufficient Amazon.

And then, of course, some people have to go and honk. It’s inevitable.

I was thinking about this the other day when I made my 4800th tweet on Twitter. Someone I regularly chatted with was offended that I wouldn’t turn my avatar green in support of Iran’s protesters, and it took him one second to unfollow me. My feelings weren’t hurt — I thought it was funny, and something that could really only happen on the internet. Face-to-face, people tend not to X people out based on one comment (or opinion) out of thousands, but it happens often in cyber-space.

Also, in face-to-face life, praise tends to be much more subtle and not nearly as effusive or glowing. No one I know in the flesh has ever called me “one of the most important female voices of our time“, or said that my writing blew their mind.  Anyone who’s ever attended writer’s groups or visited poetry sites, where even the most wretched work is met with enthusiastic kudos, knows not to take high praise too seriously, but there’s no denying it feels good in the short-term. In my day-to-day life, friends and relatives don’t even read my writing unless I ask them to and consider it a nuisance.

That alone would keep me humble, but there are also the fly-by readers who drop by my blog party, leave some tasty desert, and never return. I’m always certain it’s something I did or said, because I’m inherently guilty and insecure. If a security guard looks at me in a store, I check my pockets to make sure I didn’t steal something. And when that guy honked? Yes, pumped up with some kind of adrenaline born of incredulity and guilt for being in the way, I totally pushed my car faster. I know. I should have gone slower and told him to fuck off, but that wasn’t my first instinct.

Obviously, I have issues. Guilt, insecurity, fear of offending people, fear of insincerity,  fear of abandonment, self-doubt, and the inability to wield household tools properly — just to name a few. The transitory nature of the internet stokes my doubts and fears, and makes me confront them in a different way than I do in my “real life”.

Face-to-face, when I form even a bond with someone, even a loose one, they don’t usually disappear, never to be seen or heard from again.  When people have actually met, locked eyes, and connected, one errant comment or disagreement doesn’t usually spell the end.  And — barring the very rare nasty or snarky comment posted to blogs like mine — even dislike or annoyance is more readily apparent face-to-face, where there are visual cues that emoticons and exclamation points just can’t capture.

In three years of blogging, I’ve met and communicated with some incredible people. Some were good-incredible and some were OMFG-are-they-for-real-incredible, especially in my first year. I was happy when most of the OMFG’s disappeared, but prompted by the Twitter incident the other night I started thinking about how many people I once liked, and had personal interactions with, that have disappeared.

It felt weird.  Not necessarily sad, but strange. As if I’d walked into a random AA meeting, spilled my heart, listened to some stories, shared some hugs and coffee, and then just left.  It felt weirder still when I looked back at some of words used while bonds were being formed. . .words like love, and favorite, and friend.

It may be naive of me, but I think sometimes those words were really meant. Fleetingly maybe, but in the moment, sincerely.  At other times, I think they were a matter of custom or convenience — like a Hollywood air kiss on the cheek.

I try not to take the fly-bys so personally, but somehow I don’t feel like me when I do that. Instead, I worry that with enough repeat abandonments I might become the kind of jaded, calloused jerk that honks and yells at someone instead of getting out to help. I don’t ever want to be that kind of person.

I also don’t want to be the kind of writer who ties the value of her writing to the number and type of responses received, or whose regular readers feel obliged to respond so they don’t hurt my feelings, so I’ve shut comments off for now. We’ll see how it goes — so far, it feels like there’s less pressure for both me and for those who read. (And anyone who wants to is always welcome to email me.  I love getting mail!)

With all that said, I really appreciate those who have stuck around, who check my blog regularly (even though I’m posting much less these days), and who have become genuine friends instead of the air-kiss variety. You’re the ones who encourage me to try new things, rise above my fears, and expand my personal horizons.  I hope I do the same for you, and that you all know that if I ever see you stranded on some busy road, I’ll get out to help — no matter how burly and self-sufficient you might look.