It’s been a while. I’ve had a lot to say but not a lot of words, if that makes any sense. Summer began and passed and here we are almost at the cusp of school starting. I’m not sure if I have much to show for it other than work hours logged, a few good books read, and some intensive therapy – and I’m transparent about that one because these things need to be more at the forefront of conversation. Humans can be fragile and strong at the same time. I used to think that it was a balance but these days I feel that it is a composite, for there is strength in fragility and, conversely, strength can be fragile.
I am sitting with a beer at SEA-TAC, waiting for my red eye flight home. Four hours ago I was in California hugging Sid for the first time in almost two months and then navigating a flimsy rental car through a canyon of giant flood puddles and mudslides and rocks and pretending that I could see the road on the 405. Apparently there was an earthquake in Ojai around the time that my first flight took off. Seattle is sunny and warm and full of forest fire smoke. I don’t think it’s dramatic to say that the world is upside down.
This has been the summer of hard feelings – encountering them, acknowledging them, facing them, feeling them. I’ve never been good at any of that. I have always felt things deeply but received a D- in the processing department. If anything, I will complete this summer with a degree in feelings. Take that, Harvard.
I’m not even sure what highway I was on this morning – maybe 14 – en route to the 405, hustling to try and get ahead of the flooding and feeling guilty for not spending the full allotted four hours with my kiddo, but also cognizant of the fact that if I missed my flight, I wouldn’t be home until at least Tuesday. I’d spent the night in a random hotel, blackout drapes drawn, diving into and surfacing from intense dreams that left me covered in sweat, shaking so hard that I thought I would be sick. The rain barreled down onto the road, so much so that the car sensor registered that I had crashed the front. It kept dinging and flashing for a good half hour, the camera obstructed by sheets of water. Every so often, the car would lift with a surge, and I’d grasp the steering wheel tighter, training every thought on the lyrics of Bright Eyes songs that I’d set up to play, album by album, from my phone.
The rain reminded me of a trip my husband and I took to Turkey shortly after we were married. We drove from Izmir to Cappadocia, stopping in various towns and cities along the way, and at one point we were driving up a mountain behind an oil truck that was moving exceedingly slow. When it finally let us pass, our car was pelted with hail, and we realized quickly that the slowness and largess of the truck had been shielding us from the harsh reality of our future. When this memory hit, tears ran freely down my cheeks. I wasn’t making a sound, but the physicality of the emotions surfaced.
Much of this summer has been acknowledging the fact that I have been using life like that oil tanker, the feelings like hail just out of view. At some point that truck is going to pull over and the natural elements will reach you. So, here I am with a lot of dents and scratches. I think the hail has gotten smaller, though sometimes the smallest balls of ice sting the most.
In other news, Sid has been connecting with farm animals, and one of the chickens is named Patricia.
object of memory 