Climbing Out of the Panoply

The humidity of Costa Rica isn’t subtle; it doesn’t creep upon you, doesn’t belly up to the bar beside you as you sit. It hits; it has fists that punch the moment one steps outside. It is as subtle as a stripper.  I walked out of the San Jose airport towing my bright orange backpack and was forced to stop a moment to collect my breath, the air thick with city and heat and sweat and noise. My prearranged taxi driver mumbled to me in broken English how to get to his beat-up Mitsubishi and I blindly followed.

20 minutes later my driver dropped me at the inner-city bus station, where I was to meet my charter out to the coast. He told me that the brightly-painted castle next to the station used to be a prison. It’s now a children’s museum. He said this like this shift was symbolic of the whole country. 

I ordered a lunch at the bus station mostly through pointing and nodding; it was carne and rice but I’ve no details apart from that. My Spanish was slow to come back to me after sitting dusty since high school. I felt dumb; I’m no good at staying mute. To use the restroom at the bus station cost 50 coloń, or about ten cents. The bored looking woman at the table took my coin and handed me a few small squares of single-ply. I was traveling alone and the floor of the bathroom was slick, and so I found myself squatting over a dirty toilet, wearing my 30lb backpack and trying not to laugh out loud while my thighs shook.

The bus wasn’t air conditioned. It was half-full and I took my pre-assigned seat by an open window, my sweaty back made hotter by the rough fabric of the seat. We climbed out of the panoply of the city without a word passing between any of us. The roads narrowed and traffic shifted without signs or signals. Buses blindly passed each other. Banana farms and endless jungle lined the two-lane road and everything was verdant and hummed of wings and lust and sweat and arrogant fertility. I didn’t know where I was and my heartbeat thumped loudly in my head.

I caught my first glimpse of a road sign three hours later, after I’d resigned myself to the possibility that I’d missed my stop and my future included being murdered in the jungle near Panama, and after my fellow travelers had departed and been replaced by new strangers, one carrying a live chicken. The lone road sign was bent and dirty and hard to see but provided the modicum of comfort that I needed. It was such a relief to know I wasn’t lost, I just wasn’t there yet. 

Investments

I’ve been spending more and more time alone as of late. It’s been by choice. Solitude breeds solitude; my introverted side has shone brighter than my need to be social, as if my world has rotated ever so slightly, just enough to change my season.

My Thanksgiving plans fell through last minute and though my gracious friends offered alternative plans (One including, “Have you ever seen two deaf people get into a fight?”) I decided to spend the holiday alone.

Best decision I’ve made this year.
Thursday morning I slept in, and then made a breakfast sandwich on one of the bagels I’d picked up at Bruegger’s the day before. I fixed a bloody mary (I decided the holiday was the best time to try new recipes) and sat on my couch in the sunlight, reading. I stayed in my pajamas all day, moving from couch to couch, changing only to switch activities from reading to watching to napping. I didn’t talk to another person until my father called at 5pm. I had a dinner of sage crusted pork chops, roasted brussel sprouts and rosemary red potatoes and ended the day at Ian and Tammy’s relaxing in their hot tub and playing the Monty Python version of Fluxx. My Michael Caine accent needs work apparently.

And so the day was lovely. I didn’t deal with the drama, old wounds or latent insecurities that come with all family get-togethers, not just mine. Didn’t have to spend time getting to know people I won’t see again, or telling the tired stories of who I am. I relied on no one, and I loved it.

And yet, I worry. I worry because it came so easily to me, and as I spent almost four full days alone, I came to crave that solitude even more. In my selfishness I became more selfish. I didn’t want to invest in others or settle in a community, didn’t want to share hearts or laughs. My solitude spiraled in on itself and I’m still fighting to get out of it, even as I enjoy it. I know it to be untrue, but right now investing in others sounds like so much work that I don’t care to try.

Every Time I Blink

There was something so odd about walking the beach in November. The shore is empty, save for occasional little clumps of fishermen, their legs covered in rubber waders and their hands full of beer. Without the sounds of the summer beachgoers the ocean was free to be as soothing or as surly as it liked. The first day I walked along an ocean calm, the water the color of oxygenated avocado, the sky a crayola blue. The waves rolled and bounced shells toward shore, the broken bits sounding like shards of glass laughing. I'd never heard that sound.

The second day the ocean looked furious. As far out as I could see was white foam and water the color gray one use to describe old love gone old. The wind whipped everything it could, the sky built gray atop gray, like painting with only two colors. Tumbleweeds of seafoam skipped and rolled down the shore. The fishermen were gone. There was no one. The seashells kept coming but didn't laugh like the day before.

Not surprisingly, I thought of an Ani DiFranco song:

“The sky is gray, the sand is gray, and the ocean is gray
And I feel right at home in this stunning monochrome
Alone in my way
I smoke and I drink and every time I blink I have a tiny dream
And as bad as I am, I'm proud of the fact that I'm worse than I seem.”

I didn't get to write at the beach. I let every sort of distraction get the best of me.

Singing in the Storm

"Writing and reading decrease our sense of isolation. They deepen and widen and expand our sense of life: they feed the soul. When writers make us shake our heads with the exactness of their prose and their truths, and even make us laugh about ourselves or life, our buoyancy is restored. We are given a shot at dancing with, or at least clapping along with, the absurdity of life, instead of being squashed by it over and over again. It's like singing on a boat during a terrible storm at sea. You can't stop the raging storm, but singing can change the hearts and spirits of the people who are together on that ship."
— Anne Lamott

I wanted to say thanks to all those who have said to me that they understand what I meant in that last post. There have been several of you, and your willingness to sing in that boat with me has meant much.

One of Us In a Boat

So my blog is now seven years old. I've said a lot of things over and over during those seven years. And yes, very often my blog does act like a second grader.
One of the hard parts of blogging right now is that much of what I want to write I don’t even say aloud. I do a lot of twittering (shameless plug: www.twitter.com/ssspoonah) because it is easy to keep it light, keep it funny, keep the dog and pony show going, keep the bowling pins in the air.

In reality, it’s been a lonely year. I haven’t been alone, I’ve been lonely. I’m far from alone: I’ve had more visitors than I’ve ever hosted, attended dinners and parties weekly, had wine nights and mimosa mornings, camping trips, hikes, paddling adventures; I’ve met dozens of new friends and spent more time laughing than crying.

For the most part, my life is full. I have a great job. I have a good community. I have friends all over the country that love and support me. In this way, I am blessed.

But I am also very lonely. It’s hit me more this year than in years past. When I attend events, it is as a solo entity; I am not part of some dynamic duo. I am single. It has become more obvious to me as less and less of my peers are in the same boat. I am among the waning few that show up alone.

I have to be honest: it hurts.

I’ve been friends with several girls (and I use that term intentionally) who seemed resolute in the belief that their life couldn’t really “start” until they were paired up. They couldn’t make decisions about what to do or where to go until the marriage license was signed. It was as if the whole of their lives was actually the one dimension of matrimony.

I am not waiting for my life to start; I’m living my life. I’m just growing tired of doing it without company, of having a fabulous night, then driving home and sleeping alone. I am finally ready to admit that.

Natalie’s illness has only exacerbated this. I haven’t heard her voice or seen her beautiful face in almost six months and it kills the core of me. It is a physical ache. Erin used the best metaphor and I’ll plagiarize it: my heart is a compass and Natalie is my magnetic north. She steadfastly points in the right direction; she gives bearing when the sky is too dark to see stars. Without her, I feel unmoored; adrift, heartbroken and alone.

2009 has been a good year; a great year in some respects. But to my heart it has been most cruel.

Easy Living

It started on Saturday when I was sitting on the couch in the living room and Lucinda Williams' West ended and I was wondering what to listen to next. I haven't been able to stop listening to West lately--it's so solid from start to finish; I love her songwriting style. I wanted to keep the alt-country thing going and pulled out Kelly Willis' 2002 album Easy. It's a strong listen, albeit a short one. I listened twice.
Lately the word easy has been coming up a lot. I think about it because I wonder when easy became easy; that is, when did the easy route become my de facto choice. For years my default was the difficult, the tough, the narrow rocky road. I wanted the path of most resistance, I wanted a head wind, jeers against me, adversity, wanted the loneliness of the long distance runner. I took on more than I should, I squeezed myself into ill-fitting groups, beliefs and expectations to prove to some unknown idea that I could do it. I bit off and bit off and bit off long before I could even consider chewing.
And one day I just got tired.
And it was so easy to leave all of it.
Now I choose easy for most everything. I have leaked ambition. It feels like I just ruptured. I don't know if it is precisely the path of least resistance; it feels more like the path of less resistance. I take things as they come and leave them as they go. I don't beat myself up about things I've done or didn't do, things I should be doing or feeling or saying. I'm not holding tightly to much. I'm trying to learn how to balance the idea of long term dreams with the concept of living one day at a time and my pendulum has swung the other direction from where I was. There are times when I get saddened by this type of resignation, but most of the time it's a relief to live without my fight face.
It is selfish but god, it's easy.

Threshold

Yesterday I spent most of the afternoon/evening putting finishing touches on the subsequent projects that come from re-doing floors (shoe molding, thresholds, etc) and it is such a gift to see projects at their completion (and having an excuse to use a compound miter saw is pretty sweet). It was a beautiful day for it too.
Then I came back to the house where I am housesitting and baked a pecan pie. Last year was the debacle of the wiener dog jumping in my pumpkin pie and thus this year I've guarded my creation closely. I even tried my hand at making my own crust and it looks good at least. I'll find out later how it tastes...
After cleaning up the pie mess I took a long bath in a clawfoot tub. I love super hot water that makes cuts and sore muscles sting a little bit but in those stings lies the relief. I dried off and sat by the fire I built in the woodstove and scratched the bellies of two warm, full, sleepy dogs and drank tea.
Truly, there is much for which I am thankful.
I love my family. I love my friends. I love much, but nights like this are so enjoyable and full and quiet that I wouldn't have wanted it differently even if offered an option.

Fancy Free

It seems like every time I speak to my mother some new revelation pops up. Last week I was catching her up on trips, etc when she asked me quizzically and in all sincerity, "What exactly do you DO with your time?"
I realized that my mom doesn't really know anyone my age who isn't/wasn't married and/or has children.
At my age she had three children.
Me? I have Cranium tear-away calendar.
Just a somewhat hilarious revelation.
How does she relate to me? I worry about money and where I should go get dinner and what I'm doing with my life just like most people but that marriage/children thing is quite the chasm.
I told her, "Well, I go out to dinner a lot, hang out with friends a lot, go on spontaneous adventures fairly often, sleep in as late as I want on my weekends, I'm terrible at cooking full meals for one person, I read, I waste time online, I'm not good at getting back to my leftovers...that's about it."
And she told me I was footloose and fancy-free.
Trust me, nothing fancy I own was free. That shit expensive.


Photo of the week: Mike and Natalie and Mike's new smartcar. He's been drooling over one for almost two years and finally got off the waiting list and got his own! He's about 6'2" and says it's roomy. Natalie is my dear mentor and friend and all good things. This photo made my day.

Drivin' Miss Spooner

For 6 of the past 8 years I have lived an average of 7 hours away from my family; I-81 has become intimately familiar to me during those long solitary treks to and from the homestead (incidentially I have driven all 846 miles of I-81, from Knoxville, TN to the Thousand Islands, NY, just not all at once.) I haven't been home since Christmas and my family has not let me forget it; for this I am grateful. I'm glad to feel missed and loved as I am. Next Wednesday I'm hopping into my little Subaru and once again doing the great seven hour exodus back to LoCo. If my past trips are any indication, this is what the drive will look like:

9:22am: Plan to leave by 10am. Swear I will be out fo the house by 10:15am.

10:45am: Leave house, be very proud of myself that I left in such a timely fashion.

10:50am: Top off my gas tank, believe this is the trip where I will only stop once.

10:58am: Be bored with the drive, put something loud on the iPod which will probably involve Jay-Z.

11:38am: Begin game of guessing to the exact mile how far it is from my house to my parents house and what my gas milage will be for the trip. Forget my bets in about an hour.

12:04pm: Pause iPod, start making phone calls to whomever I can think to call. Get 9 voice mail messages straight, hate everyone for not answering their phones to chat with me at noon on a Wednesday. Realize I'm ridiculous. Keep calling people.

12:44pm: First pee break. Curse my bladder and coffee consumption, consider pulling a crazy astronaut and buying diapers.

1:21pm: Start playing the Choose Cheesy mix as loud as possible with as many wild hand gestures as possible. Sing "Greatest Love of All" at top of my lungs.

2:23pm: Switch to "Slow n' Steady" mix which causes me to curl deep into a furrowed brow and hypothetical conversations. Quite possibly stare at nothing as I'm driving through Roanoke. Realize this is just past the half-way point; get nervous and vow to not stop for any reason. Immediately have to pee.

3:16pm: Stop to pee again. Possibly stretch. Once again bet on total mileage and time. Feel confident that I'll win. Against myself. In a fictional contest. Wave at the exit for Rockbridge. Decide driving sucks and road trips suck and driving road trips alone sucks and you probably suck too, sucker.

3:30pm: Probably start a conversation with myself. Not even probably, I will start a conversation with myself, and I will ask myself questions and answer them in turn. I will find myself charming, witty, sincere and smart. I will think I am a good conversationalist. This will be right around the time I hit Harrisonburg. That will cause me to think about all the people who went to JMU that I could give a shout out to at that moment. I'll just yell "GO DUKES!" to no one in particular. I will only partially mean this cheer.

4:08pm: Bless the inventor of cruise control, get terrible back cramp, have indigestion from questionable gas station purchase from hour previous. Be in love with the Shenandoah Valley. Listen to a random episode of "This American Life" debate whether this will keep me awake or put me to sleep. Realize I will need to fill up cuz I won't make it all the way there on one tank. Curse this fact.

4:40pm: Stop somewhere near Front Royal and fill up. Think Arbys, but do nothing about it.

5:15pm: See exit 315 for Rt 7. Cheer. Exit and feel very strange driving at 55mph. Probably break out into "Old Dominion" by Eddie from Ohio, also with dramatic hand gestures. Get a little emotional driving down the roads I've known my whole life.

5:44pm: Pull into my dad's house. Feel the whole trip was already worth it.

OPP

So I think I finally have a job (or two?) but I am tempering my excitement until I actually hear someone say, "You've got the job." It just looks really good from here. Big interview on monday! Being unemployed this long I have been afforded a lot of time to myself and I have to say: I'm going to miss it. I really like being by myself; being alone and yet I am not in the least bit lonely. I like my social time too, but I've throughly enjoyed taking my time through my day, spending time writing, reading, guitar, doing little tasks, etc. I like my own company. I'm thinking that eventually I'd like to get my own place, live alone for a while, see how I do. I've never had the chance to decorate my own apartment or house, I've always lived in other people's places (a very different kind of OPP, yeah you know me) and I would like to try my hand at it. Have my own space and a sense of permanence. (Don't get me wrong: love my roommates, love my current house, just thinking down the road. Don't freak out Jane...). Though if I do get a chance to work as a writer and I live alone I am in great danger of never leaving my house and becoming a complete recluse. You may not think this is possible but I'm here to assure you, oh, it is. I'm a closeted recluse...I just play a socialite on TV.
I guess the first step is secure a job, then think about the What Next when it's the time to.