I hesitated to leave my house today. I had hit my stride in cleaning and organizing, and every newly packed box was getting me more excited about my upcoming writing trip. I already have a list of thirty people to meet in 11 states, and more story tips, ideas, and offers are coming in daily. Still — and this will come as no surprise to my regular readers — I was out of AA batteries (again), I needed light bulbs (again), and I really really needed a latte (what’s new?).
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.
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