Undoing

A wild wind kicks up a dust devil, whips my hair about my face, and seems to have confounded a hawk in its effort to ride the turbulence. It imparts a kind of drama and chaos to our days, and I cannot shake the sense of undoing, as we dismantle our lives and trudge through this transition. We’ve been diligently packing, donating, and recycling, and we now have a storage unit for the things that we are keeping. Books comprise the bulk of our possessions, but even with Monte’s ruthless tendency to give stuff away, a few odd and awkward objects will remain with us. Yesterday, for example, we pulled an old wooden church pew from the garage, dusted off years of cobwebs and spider eggs, rubbed a bit of furniture oil into it, and there it stood, gleaming in the sunlight, awaiting its new home.

And I dared to open the aptly named Trunk of Pain, reviewed the sorrows it contains, commingled with an occasional fond memory, and made the decision to shove down the lid and continue to live with it. I shall haul it around like a body, and it will be unearthed someday by my daughter, who at no point in her life is likely to look through it and finally understand the sadness and complexity that shaped her late mother––no, I picture her depositing it all into a dumpster with a shrug and a sigh, but still, I keep it. I did, however, bravely agree to discard the train case that I used to take on sleepovers in my teenage years. It was already old then, but glamorous, with its blue satiny interior, mirrored lid, and those buckles that shut with a delicious and decisive snap. But it was in a state of dusty decomposition and had to go.

So much must go! Theme of life: letting go. Preceded by intently paying attention, as Mary Oliver would have advised. Letting go, and navigating change, which is inevitable, and which in fact is the very nature of being in the world. Sometimes the change is gradual and less obvious, and we look up years later surprised by what it wrought. Sometimes, like now, it is tumultuous, and, like that determined, discombobulated hawk, we try to ride its winds with grace and stamina.

Meanwhile, we are tending to the quotidian tasks, the mundane maintenance, the daily busy-ness of grownups. On my way to an appointment last week, a dashboard warning light went on, and I pulled into a local service center where a kind man checked my tires and discovered that I had picked up a nail––maybe, I mused ironically, from the bed of nails in which I’ve been sleeping. Temporarily inflated, I drove to my physical therapy session, which I find futile and ambiguous, but I can tell you about that another time, and then I found my way to a tire shop and garage in the rear of a busy industrial space crammed with cars and machinery, with a freeway roaring behind it. The young Hispanic man at the counter graciously welcomed me and suggested I get comfortable and wait while they fix the tire. No worries—we’d get me home safely.

My dear friend Kelley came to meet me, handed me a cold bottle of sparkling water, and we sat on old lawn chairs with sun-faded cushions, on a grassy knoll we hadn’t known was there, while two men barbecued, switching from Spanish to English to apologize for the smoke, saying we could have some chicken when it’s done, and a couple from Kelley’s church happened by and showed us pictures of their new grandchild, and a teacher I used to know recognized me and said I had beautiful hair, and the cars on the freeway whizzed noisily by, and it was as though we had stumbled upon an island of kindness and community tucked away in the working class back streets of Buellton. A half hour later, one of the repairmen called out to tell me my car was ready. My bill: twenty bucks, practically free. My spirits: lifted considerably. Serendipities are strewn everywhere.

On Saturday, I went to a protest rally in Santa Barbara because, well, isn’t that what we do? We look up from packing boxes to stand up against the lunatic fascist takeover of our nation. But I believe these demonstrations help, and the tipping point draws near, and I will never back down. Kelley picked me up and drove us to town, our trusty protest signs stashed in the back of her lipstick-red vehicle, emergency peanut butter sandwiches in our packs. We parked a few blocks away from the route as people began to gather, cars sped by, horns honked. “Are they honking for democracy, or are we just in the way?” I asked aloud as we crossed the street.

And it was what has by now become the usual thing: the intrepid, weathered faithful who refuse to believe that this is how it ends, and who defiantly refuse to allow it. The signs were colorful and passionate: NO MORE CHAOS, NO MORE CRUELTY; ICE IS THE NEW GESTAPO; AMERICA, WAKE UP! The crowds lined both sides of State Street, and folks in passing vehicles waved and honked in exuberant support, except for the two that accelerated noisily, screeched on brakes, and swerved intentionally in a classic display of hostility and impotence.

On the way home later, Kelley and I talked about friendship, and the things that adhere and uphold us when we are coming undone. We drove beneath the trees that lean into each other and kiss above the road, and we resolved never to give up. That night, I saw a shooting star, and the lights of a fishing boat far out on the water, and something sure and unwavering told me it was still a good world to be lost in. I had a few shaky days last week, and loving friends embraced me, and one of them reminded me never to let the ugliness of others turn me ugly. Readers of this very blog wrote to me, some of whom I have not met in person, reminding me that I am part of a huge village, and we have each other’s backs.

Wonders abound, and sometimes detours lead to better understandings, and I don’t think I have ever cherished more fully all that is dear.