The Pull of a Strong Tide – a Father’s Day story
My dad wore a hot pink shirt to my Bat Mitzvah when men were still mostly wearing only white button downs.
Because this coming Sunday is Father’s Day, I wanted to share a story about my dad. Growing up, he was a playmate, an advocate, and always, a big supporter of whatever I have wanted to do and be. My dad will be 85 this September. He still lives in his own home, drives, shops, cooks, and he even has a girlfriend! I’m so grateful to still have him in my life.
For most of my childhood, my family lived on Long Island, the fish-shaped peninsula east of New York City. In sticky summer traffic it was an hour’s drive to Jones Beach.
Weekdays, when my mother took us, we went to the bay. At low tide I could wade out for practically a mile and the water never got higher than my bikini-bare waist. Far, far out, the bottom finally dropped to where I could stretch my feet to tippy toes, tilt my chin back and still be able to breathe.
Even on the brightest day, the water was a thick, murky brown. I kept my eyes closed underwater and wore nose plugs and did the Dead Man’s Float until I or my brother came up first, gasping and losing.
My mother stayed on the beach, watching us from the shade of the blue and white striped beach umbrella, guarding our towels and eyeglasses and the Styrofoam cool chest, filled with green grapes and ready peaches and my uneaten ketchup and corned beef sandwich.
On weekends and holidays when my father came along, we went to the ocean. He body-surfed through the waves with me, to just before where the big ones were breaking. When the wall of water whitecapped in front of us, he’d squeeze my hand and yell “Jump!” and we’d both push up off the pebble-shell bottom, taking deep breaths, just in case.
Sometimes I’d stand on his t-shirted shoulders so he could toss me into a high breaker. Once, instead of diving through the cresting water, I somersaulted too many times under the pounding swells. My head banged into someone else’s legs. Gritty salt water stung my eyes and flooded my nose.
I came up for air just as another wave crashed, but I couldn’t stand up because my bathing suit top had slipped up. I ducked back underwater and pulled my top down as the wave roared over me. When I finally resurfaced, my father was standing there laughing, a clump of seaweed stringing from his glasses.
From Passage to Active
In January, I chose Passage as my guiding word for the year. Based on the acronym that Reverend Tinker shared, it seemed the perfect choice to keep me focused and moving on this journey.
P=Preparedness
A=Adaptability
S=Spontaneity
S=Single-mindedness
A=Availability
G=Gratitude
E=Enthusiasm
But now, six months later, I am here in Asheville and I feel like I am on the other side of that passage. That I have somehow arrived in a new place with myself.
I’ve been here in this campground for almost a month, and I have needed this time to collect myself, to step back and realize how I got here, literally and figuratively. And I have been loving this time of contemplation and quiet, days of sitting and watching the river.
But now, I am beginning to feel antsy. Bored. And I’m feeling that handing out books to campers is no longer enough. I’m ready to be more active.
Action is one step, then another. Being active is staying engaged, participating, connecting. It is being activated.
After almost 30 years in my Mac business, it’s easy for me to forget that starting a new business (and that’s what I’m doing with my book and my writing), requires daily attention, actions, stretching, growing, activating.
But as my Mac business is, in many ways, becoming more passive, I too have become less involved, less engaged, less motivated and excited about creating something new.
But now I am realizing that I am ready for more activity. I am consciously reminding myself that this new work is what excites me. That I LIKE talking about my book. And that I can use the skills and tools I’ve been using in my Mac business to get this new work out into the world.
Several folks have asked if I am writing a book about this adventure. One friend suggested that, instead of just focusing on a bigger story of a book, to start with a short e-book, highlighting some of the things I’m learning about this kind of journeying.
This excites me. It’s a small enough project to make happen while I am here, in this open-hearted place by the river. It gives me a focus for my daily writing. And if I give myself a deadline, it will get done.
So I have begun this new writing project and would love to know what you might want to know about RV living in general, this journey I’m on, or anything else you’re curious about.
Meanwhile, I will be a guest on two internet radio shows next week, talking about Heart Sparks, Creativity and who knows what else! Stay tuned for details!
Sit. Stay. Be.
Cody and I are still in Asheville, camped on the French Broad River. It is quiet and spacious and comfortable. We are RIGHT. ON. the river. The camp hosts are delightful. It’s close to shopping and it’s a wonderful place to invite people to come visit me. The weather is idea, there are no mosquitoes or ticks. There is free wifi. And staying in one place saves on gas.
The other day I went up to the office to pay for another week here, and I said to Bill, the camp owner, I’m going to be staying in Asheville through July 7. I have reservations at another park for after the 11th (the last date open here), but I’d love to be able to come back if anything opens up.
Let me look, he said. I’ll see what I can do.
I was expecting a few days here and there, especially with July 4th and all.
I can get you in, he said.
For the whole time?
Yep. You’ll have to move over a spot.
Through July 4th?
I thought you wanted it through the 7th?
And I get to pay the monthly rate, which is so much more affordable than $33.00 a day.
This is what happens when we know so deeply what we want. And when we ask, with no expectation. And when we open to more than we can imagine.
For a while I wondered about the other place that I had been planning to move to. It was closer to downtown Asheville, which would be closer for my friends, still on the river, and on a multi-use trail so I could finally ride my bike. But the path went right through the park, so not great security. And it was next to the noisy highway. And the reviews weren’t that favorable. I considered driving over there to check it out while I got my propane tank filled, but they were out of propane. I took it as the final sign that I didn’t need to see it to know that I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.
And then Sunday, I had a bit of a meltdown. After all of the recent excitement and magic of connecting with friends and meeting new people, and knowing that I am here for a whole extra month, I had no plans and didn’t know what I was going to DO with the day.
I took a walk with Cody and realized that there are parts of me that are still swirling in all of the recent happenings, some that are ready for the next big step, and other parts are needing to catch up, and still other parts just want to rest.
And so really, the day was not about Doing anything, it was about NOT doing. Stilling. Be-ing.
I have been watching the rush of the river every day, daring myself to walk farther and farther into the current. The other day, in my bathing suit, I walked out half way up my thighs, just past where I couldn’t see the rocks on the bottom. I footed around to make sure it was level, and then I walked just a little further so that I could dunk myself in. I got wet up to just below my shoulders – I couldn’t crouch any lower. And it was a rush of exhilarating cold and flow and it felt great!
So many things about being here are like that exhilarating rush: choosing this gorgeous campground, feeling such a connection to the river, being so welcomed by friends, inviting people to sit by the river with me, I’m even working, in person and virtually, with Mac and coaching clients.
All of it is so exciting, and wonder-ous, and heart sparking. And maybe a little exhausting.
So instead of rushing to the next big thing, I’m going to find a quiet pooling of water that isn’t rushing upstream, and I’m just gonna sit and breathe and sit with all that has been and all that is, and gather my parts all together again. And THEN I’ll be ready to take the next first step.
Watching the River Run
I am staying in Asheville, NC at least through June 11. Maybe through July 4th, if I can get reservations. Because it is beautiful. Because I have friends here. Because I haven’t felt this clear and good and present in a long time.
By choosing to stay, everything has shifted. I can completely relax into being here and soaking up everything without being distracted by needing to think about where and what is next.
I have been practicing sitting by the river, watching the water. Not thinking or planning or taking pictures, just being fully present to the ripples and the birds and the rich smells. Some efforts are more successful than others, but I just come back to my breath and the water and try again.
And I’m learning how to enjoy being more social.
I’m saying yes to dinner invitations. I’m inviting friends to come sit with me by the river. I’m making one sweet connection at a time, me being able to offer a relaxing space of time to visit and get to know more of these mostly Facebook friends.
I even said yes to going for a bike ride with a hard core cycling friend. I told her my limit was probably five miles, and she said fine. But when I looked at the road, a two lane, curving mountain road with no shoulder or bike lane, I heard myself say a big NO. Was I being a woos? it didn’t matter. I didn’t feel comfortable riding under those conditions. So I told my friend how I felt and said that, if she could find a bike path, I’d still ride. But instead, we had a wonderful conversation just sitting by the water.
Sometimes it’s just about saying yes… even if you don’t end up following through. Because you’ve opened yourself up. The intention is there. You’ve moved a step in a Yes direction.
Saying NO is not a sign of failure or weakness. In fact, saying No AFTER saying yes can be even MORE empowering.
In the past two weeks I’ve spent a lot of time with friends. Lunches, dinners, a drumming circle, grocery shopping, the Farmer’s Market, many sitting times on the river. On Saturday Cody and I joined our friend Ursula for a hike and in the evening we sat outside at our friend Anna’s house for lovely little dinner party, looking out over the seven mountain ridges that stretch from Asheville to Tennessee.
I’ve loved all of it. But, between all of the activity and spending so much time outside in the pollen-filled breeze, I ended up with a little sinus infection. And I was tired.
So on Sunday, after working in-person with a Mac client, I just wanted to nap and stay inside. But I had invited Joann, a friend of a friend, to come and sit by the river in the afternoon.
I emailed Joann that I’d really like to reschedule, and she completely understood. I was so relieved. I took an hour nap, woke up stuffy and groggy and just hung out the rest of the day, so grateful for the space to just be.
There are times when I start to spin my wheels, and get all wrapped up in thinking about the travel back west. I have to be back in Phoenix by August 5 to fly to Colorado Springs for a big training job. But I have no clear ideas, just some options… and so I have to let it go.
And I come back to being right here. Right now. Where the river is flowing from south to north, and the sky is hinting at more rain. I shift my focus to how full my heart feels right now and remind myself that I have two whole weeks before I need to know what’s next. And so really the question is what do I want to do now.
For most of this trip I’ve had a theme song for each state. In New Mexico it was Paul Simon’s “Hearts and Bones,” in Texas it was Glen Campbell’s “Galveston.” Then Linda Ronstadt’s “Blue Bayou” in Louisiana, “Mississippi moon won’t you keep on shining on me,” “Sweet Home Alabama,” and “Georgia on My Mind.”
But here in North Carolina, camped on the banks of the French Broad River, it took a few days to choose. Loggins and Messina’s “Watching the River Run,” captures it all.
“If you’ve been thinking you’re all that you’ve got
don’t feel alone anymore
When we’re together then you’ve got a lot
I am the river and you are the shore
And it goes on and on, watching the river run
Further and further from things that we’ve done
Leaving them one by one
And we have just begun, watching the river run
Listening, learning, yearning, run river run…”
And so I am here, listening, learning and exploring what I might really be yearning. And watching the river run. (Click to watch the river with me!)
Listening In
It’s a little after seven in the morning and Cody and I just finished playing our first round of ball. We are still camped 20 minutes north of Asheville, North Carolina in a small campground right on the banks on the French Broad River. There are trees, some grass and several families of Canada Geese.
I have so been enjoying my time here. It is gorgeous, and quiet and alive with the water and the train and there are people to talk with and places to walk and explore. I’ve been getting together with old friends and new, and I even joined in at the Friday night drumming circle downtown.
I facilitated a Heart Sparks workshop at the local Unity of the Blue Ridge and a friend hosted a lovely book party at her home. And next week, I’m doing some Mac and iPad training.
I feel like I am just settling into something new in myself and I so wish I could stay here longer to really explore it without the distractions of traveling and what’s next.
But when I made my reservation, they were full for Memorial Day, so I was scheduled to leave on Wednesday and move on to Rome, Georgia, then Decatur, Alabama.
But on our morning walk on Sunday, the camp host stopped us to tell me they had a cancellation and did I want to stay longer.
My heart literally leaped in my chest with joy.
And even though I have a friend who has been diligently planning some Heart Sparks events in the next town over the holiday weekend, my whole body said Stay. And so I am. All the way through the end of May. And I am so. very. happy.
And as I sit here and open up to this space I have created, I can’t believe how good it feels to give myself this freedom, without a second thought.
I have been inviting friends to come and sit by the river with me. To relax and breathe and soak up the beauty of this place. And we have had such rich, reflective and inspiring conversations. I even had a massage right outside the RV, with the overcast sky and the water and it was incredible.
And, now that I am staying so much longer, I’m going to share the magic of this place at the Heart Sparks River Retreat Day. (Saturday, May 31. Email me for details!)
When I set out on this journey, I had a vision that I would meet someone new in Asheville. And I have. I have met myself.
For years, I have been stifling my sense of wonder and adventure, my love of connection, believing that I am happier playing it safe and comfortable, by myself. For those of you who know about the enneagram, I used to strongly identify with being a 7- optimistic, adventurous, enthusiastic. But in the last five years, I just haven’t felt it.
Now, suddenly, I am remembering how wonderful it feels to shine so bright from the inside, to show up for myself the way I show up for others, to say yes to things without stopping myself with old stories.
The other day I went to Walmart. I don’t usually shop there, but I needed to stock up on all kinds of things and Walmart was close and it’s easy to park the RV in their big lot. I found everything I needed, only got slightly cranky waiting 5 minutes to get ¼ lb of sliced turkey, and then I had a lovely exchange with my checkout person, Irene.
I said, “Where I come from, going to Walmart on a Saturday morning is crazy making.”
She asked, “where’s that?
“Phoenix,” I said.
“What are you doing here?”
“Traveling around in my RV.”
Her whole face lit up. “Just you?”
“And my dog.”
“Oh wow. That’s what I want to do. Just me.”
I said, “Well I’ve done it with someone, and now I’m doing it by myself. There are definite advantages and disadvantages to both. But so far, I’m loving it.”
“Oh. I know I just want to go by myself,” she said.
“Make a plan,” I said. “You can make it happen.”
And she believed me.
And I wanted to tell her about my book. And give her a copy. But I didn’t want to walk all the way back from where I had parked the RV to get it. And I didn’t even think to just give her a card.
But later, when I was sitting with Cody by the river, remembering the exchange, I thought how fun it would be to mail her a copy.
So I called Walmart, got her name and employee number and I just addressed the envelope.
This! This is such a fun way to share my book and my message. Last week I mailed a copy to the very friendly and helpful woman at the RV Park in Louisiana. She emailed me with such delight, that I had thought of her, that I sent her the book. She said she reviews books all the time and she will send me the link. Wow.
We never know how we will touch someone when we show up with a full and open heart. Even more surprising is how it opens up something in ourselves.
When Things Get Uncomfortable
Note: I wrote this in December, 2012, three months after I moved to the beach in California. I share it today because the themes are the same today as I navigate my way on the Heart Sparks Road Tour.
“This is the place of creative incubation. At first, you may find nothing happens there. But, if you have a sacred place and use it, take advantage of it, something will happen.” Joseph Campbell
With all of the posts and photos of me in this beautiful dream-come-true life, I have friends writing, asking me how am I REALLY doing. And I have to admit, every day is not a walk on the beach. Well, on one hand it is, because Laddy and I do walk on the beach at least once every day. But some days I’m not as willing or able to enjoy the beauty of the walk.
My original vision that got me here is not the life I want to live. This is the only thing I know. I don’t know what I do want, or how I want to be serving in a bigger way. And this not knowing can be mighty uncomfortable.
Some days my focus shifts to how hard it is to live in a place where I don’t know many people. Some days I wonder if this is really the place for me. Some days I feel so lost without a true direction, a solid plan, a clear answer to what I’m doing here.
And when it gets really uncomfortable, I scan Craigslist, thinking that finding a house will solve my troubles.
And then I breathe and laugh at myself, and see how easy it is for me to think that doing something else will alleviate the real feelings. Sure it will, for a time. But, bottom line, I need to feel what I’m feeling and dive even deeper into the discomfort to find ways to be OK with it. Only then will I move through and find myself on the other side.
When I’m able to step back and then in again, I see what a gift I am giving myself, living here with very few obligations, commitments, stressors. I don’t have to work 40 hours a week, my rent is affordable and the view is fantastic.
I have created this amazing opened space to dream new dreams, discover new why’s and really fall in love with myself and my life.
And so each week I engage in some new activity and do something to connect with people who enjoy what I enjoy. I went to a yoga and writing workshop. I attended an amazing kirtan concert. I even feasted at an all-you-can-eat crab feed.
And each experience sheds some light into the unknown, sparks a dream I have forgotten, reminds me what I do love to do.
Every day I watch the tide roll in, all the way up to the rocks, then retreat back into the ocean. Clouds gather in the sky, hiding the sun, then spread and float, breaking into blue. I know this is the rhythm of living, up and down, in and out. And I know that when I come back to here, this moment, this single in breath and out breath, I am exactly where I need to be and that I have everything I need.
And so each day, my focus is simply to pay attention. To notice the beauty around me and follow the energy of each moment. To sleep if I am tired and walk when I feel stuck. To feed myself what I am craving and seek out companionship when I am lonely. To laugh at my old patterns and catch myself when I feel the impulse to run. To lean deeper into being still and uncomfortable and keep breathing, feeling my way through. Only then will I hear the whisper of new questions and be willing to follow them to discover the answers.
How do you move through the uncomfortable? I’d love for you to share your experience by clicking on the Comments below.
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Redefining Adventure
I’m in Alabama, camped along a lake, getting ready for the next three weeks of full-on Heart Sparks activities.
I’m loving this stretch of rest and peace, realizing that my pace has shifted. I’m more interested in staying in a place for a few days, to settle in, explore the landscape and trails, feel the air and smell the trees and bathe in all of the green and light.
I don’t want to be rushing to the next place, but I do what to know where it is.
Yes, I have patches of lonely, and what the hell am I doing? And there are days when I wonder what the point of this all is.
But when I come back to my breath, the water, the birds, the peace I feel, I remind myself to trust that I am exactly where I am supposed to be.
driving north on the Natchez Trace, MS
I have never been what folks would call adventurous. Not with my eating, not with my daily activities and certainly not as a traveler. I’m much more comfortable staying home, putzing, writing, engaging with people one on one.
And yet, here I am, living full-time in my 24 foot motorhome, camped in a city park in the middle of Jackson, MS surrounded by a lake, trees and so much green. And I am most certainly on an adventure.
But every time I’d think about the word Adventure, I felt “less than.” Because I wasn’t trying new things, or stopping in the sweet towns I drove through, or even sampling the local cuisine.
I had to redefine the word so that it felt good to claim it, instead of it making me feel like I was not living up to someone else’s definition of the word.
Adventure doesn’t have to mean thrilling, like sky diving, or hiking to some ridiculously high peak to get an amazing panoramic view. While adventure implies excitement, it doesn’t have to be dangerous.
Adventure can be joyful and fun, curious and delight-full. It is walking a new trail and seeing a frog, smaller than my thumb, hop right across my path. It’s feeling the coolness of the rain-soaked grasses brush against my bare calves, and not caring that my shoes are getting wet.
Adventure means seeing what else there is…. to notice, to feel, to smell, taste, just take in and experience what is right around you. Beyond what is known, familiar, comfortable.
Adventure is driving around a town without my GPS on, just seeing the streets and houses and how people live.
Adventure is walking home on a different trail, trusting my sense of direction.
Adventure is riding my bike on a nature trail, even though the sign says No Bikes Allowed.
For some people, adventure is not knowing where you’ll be staying the next night. I tried it. I didn’t like it. It caused way too much anxiety and stress, even though I trusted it would all work out, and it did.
And this too, is adventure: navigating with my heart, trusting my gut, and believing that it will all work out for the best.
What does adventure look and feel like for you? Click on the Comments to share!
A Taste of Louisiana: Week 3
Friday:
I’m in Louisiana, camped next to a lagoon at Sam Houston Jones State Park near Lake Charles. Frogs are croaking, crickets are cricketing, the neighbor family is playing a fun, danceable tune, but not too loud.
We’re in for the night after a walk and then sitting outside, me drawing, Cody lying down, head up, taking it all in. It’s been raining on and off all day so we’ve been in and out all day, walking the forest trail, over to the boat launch, around the campground. I’ve been tolerating, almost enjoying the moisture here in Louisiana-it’s like a thin film, not a drenching, and there are no mosquitoes.
And I’ve been practicing that Abraham Hicks quote that was circulating on Facebook this week: “Content where I am, Eager for more.”
I’m settling into this big thing. I love experiencing all these different state parks and trails and the birds and trees and sounds. I’m less interested in the towns, or shopping or historical sites. And I’m learning to be ok with that.
But, with the storms and the mugginess, it’s been difficult to want to spend much time outdoors. And I was getting cranky.
So I took some deep breaths and asked myself, what do I need? I was tired of the weather. And the storms. And the bugs. And I realized I didn’t have to visit my friend in FL since we weren’t doing a Heart Sparks thing together. So why not go a different way?
So, I’ll be leaving the muggy, buggy coast and heading north in a few days. I’m going to explore the back roads of Mississippi and Alabama along the Natchez Trace, ending up in Atlanta on May 7 for the beginning of lots of Heart Sparks connections. Without making reservations for every step of the way, just seeing where I want to stop for the day, and hoping that I can get a space on the weekend.
Saturday:
Before I went to bed, I thought about having a leisure morning and not leaving until 11, maybe trying lunch at Harry’s, a local fried food dive, before the 102 mile drive to New Iberia.
Turns out a storm was passing through, green, yellow, and red on the radar, so I stayed put for a while. Cody and I played between downpours, perfectly timed so he could pee, then poop. I worked on some Mac newsletters, checked in with my Facebook friends and did the dishes.
And then it was 10:30 and I was watching the radar and wondering if I was ever going to get on the road. The leisure of the morning was over and I wanted to take some kind of action. But I didn’t want to be driving in heavy rain and thunder.
I called Marika and, of course, I cried for half a minute, then we chatted about her movie and dinner out the night before, her bronchitis, and Mabel, and we talked about the pending storms. She gave me the courage to drive, reminding me that if it got too bad, I could always pull over and wait it out.
So I packed up, unhooked the electricity and drove into town for a stop at the supermarket where it was barely drizzling. It was an easy drive on the freeway, no rain, no wind. Trucks seemed to be going faster, maybe to make up for lost time.
I got to New Iberia and was planning to tour the Tabasco Factory down the road, but in this weather, the adjoining gardens were probably sloppy and muddy. And the bottling tour is only Monday through Thursday. So instead, I did laundry and watched TV with the free wifi, settling into a relaxing Saturday afternoon.
That evening, I was so proud of myself. Michelle, the woman in the office, had recommended I try Landry’s Cajun Seafood Restaurant, that the Saturday seafood buffet was great and they had live music in the evening. I didn’t want to go alone so I went to the office and asked her if she wanted to join me. But she worked until 7 and she had just eaten lunch.
On my walk back to the RV I told myself, I can’t not do things because I’m by myself.
So I unplugged the RV and drove the seven miles down the road to the restaurant. The parking lot was almost full except for the 3 spots in the back corner. I backed the RV into the spot up against the grass line so I was only taking one space. I turned a fan on, gave Cody a chew bone and I went in. Big long picnic tables covered in plastic red and white checked tablecloths filled the barn-like room.
I sat at a table for one, right near the buffet and watched all sizes of people walk away with piled plates of fried fish and shrimp and onion rings, rice and beans, salads and pies, and red cafeteria trays piled high with palm-sized bright-red, right-out-of-the boil crawfish.
It was $17.97 for the buffet and $10.00 extra if you had the boiled crawfish, too. I perused the buffet three times, but nothing on it appealed to me. I asked about the sautéed seafood platter, but it was made with a butter sauce, not what I like. I thought about getting just a 2 lb order of the boiled crawfish to try it, but what if I didn’t like the seasoning. I hemmed and hawed, and then I left.
I drove home, backed in, hooked up. and started to make my own dinner, then remembered that Michelle said that the Chinese place delivers! So I ordered a combination dinner- boneless spare ribs, pork fried rice and an eggroll. And an order of Chinese donuts. It was fine, not great, but the donuts, my favorite, were divine.
In the evening we walked over to the pond and I watched the flying fish propel themselves out of the water and into the air, three to six feet. I heard myself ask, why do they do that, and I smiled at my answer, because they can.
Sunday:
I drove 30 minutes north and enjoyed brunch at the house of a friend of a long time ago friend. Katy, the chef, served a delicious spread of egg scrambles made in muffin tins, hash browns, fruit, and blueberry-blackberry cobbler for dessert. When she heard I lived in Cayucos, she couldn’t believe it. She learned how to smoke fish and meat from the owner of Rudell’s Smoke House there!
I drove an easy hour, again on I-10, alongside the scenic Atchafalaya River, east bound on one side of the river, west bound on the other, and all between a gorgeous sideline of gorgeous green trees. I cried when I drove over the Mississippi River. Because WOW! I was driving across the Mississippi River! All the way from California!
For the next few days, we’re camping about a mile from the mighty Mississippi at an Equestrian Center in Baton Rouge, waiting out a few more big storms. The view is wide and green, with trees and grass and an occasional rider in the horse pens.
Last night we walked over to the pavilion area where a group was gathering. In the parking area nearby, a man was leaning against the bed of a pickup next to two very large aluminum pots, smoking from a pack of Salems. I said hello, he nodded and I asked, “What’s going on?”
“Railroad neighbor congress bowl,” he said. His words were like a long train that didn’t stop at the station.
“Oh,” I said. He could tell I had no idea what he was talking about. “River Road Neighborhood Crawfish Boil.” he said, again, still with that long, slippery accent. “They do it every year.”
I said I’d never eaten crawfish before. He opened the lid on a thirty-gallon heavy duty trash cans and inside were those bright-red little creatures that actually looked like shrimp with a few more appendages.
He picked one up and said, “You snap it, then pull it back.” He wiped the roe with his little finger as he peeled the tender white meat from the shell and offered it to me. It was sweet and salty, tender, all in one quick bite.
“How do you cook them?”
“Boil ‘em, in some seasoning, some salt.”
“Where do you get them?”
“In the swamp.
“What do you use for bait?”
“They use wire boxes now, and modern day they use manufactured bait, but we used to use fish for bait.”
He switched the cigarette to his left hand and reached out his right. “I’m Doc Watkins.” He smiled and I noticed the deep trough lines on his face like he’d spent his whole life outside in the swamps.
“Ruth Davis,” I said, shaking his hand. He asked were I was from, I told him why I was traveling. We grinned in agreement about the simple things in life.
So I had my quintessential bite of Louisiana seafood. And I’ve experienced the crazy scary weather of the Gulf Coast. Honestly, I’m ready for some sun, some biking, some walking, some easy breathing weather days.
But another storm is due tomorrow and I’m choosing not to drive in it. Instead, I’m going to settle in to this new pace, going with the flow, inching my way on the map to Atlanta with a constant eye on the weather and on my heart while I do a lot of deep, deep breathing.
Blessings of the Road: Week 2
After the two day delay and the rush across New Mexico, I have settled into the rhythm of the road. Drive four hours, camp three or four days. This gives us a chance to be in a place, explore and take things in without rushing. And if we just want to have a day at home, without being a tourist, there’s time and space for that too.
It’s been quite a weather adventure along the Gulf Coast. On Friday night, after a day of exploring some parks, the marinas and the local art center, we experienced our first tornado warning. Camp neighbors, Cathie and Jack had introduced themselves when we pulled in on Thursday.
They’re full-timers, here since October when she had some kind of knee surgery and has been bedridden until just a few days ago. Jack had stopped by later in the afternoon with a street map of the area and the bigger towns across the Causeway, where I was hoping to do some exploring on Friday.
He asked if I was tracking the weather. He had a weather radio and they were saying a pretty big storm might be coming through on Friday night. Big hail, big wind, maybe even a tornado. He said they’d be going over to the bathrooms if the wind got to be too much for Cathie. I asked him if they would take me and Cody with them if that happened and he said Absolutely.
So on Friday morning, Cody and I unplugged from the coolness of the air conditioning and drove over the two-mile long-Lyndon B. Johnson Causeway that crosses Copano Bay in Rockport and Fulton.
I went food shopping first, then we drove around, without BOB (my GPS) guiding us, just looking for some interesting places to stop and walk. I parked on the side of the road in front of a fancy B& B and watched the water slosh over the breaker wall. We pulled into a parking lot and watched pelicans flying. Eventually I parked on the street along the working marinas and we walked along the wooden docks, looking into the empty boats.
A couple was cleaning the deck of the boat closest to the bait shop. The woman gathered up fish scraps and carried them into the shop. Cody sniffed to the edges of the dock, where the water sloshed a foot below.
I drove over to a picnic area along the bay and I had lunch in the RV, out of the mugginess. Then we walked around the grassy area so Cody could enjoy a sniff fest. And then I decided to do the laundry. I found a coin-operated Laundromat with a lot big enough to park in. I waiting in the RV with Cody between cycles and we were done in less than two hours.
We drove over to the Rockport Art Center and walked a bit, then I put Cody in the RV so I could go inside. The Aquarium was there too, and free, but I was tired and the mugginess was getting to me. So we drove back over the bridge and returned to camp.
Backing into a camp spot is always a big question mark. Sometimes I can get it on the first try. Other times I can look in the mirror, get out and visually check, and still not get the angles right. This time I ended up pretty close to level, and glad for the slight angle. If we were going to get rain, this way it could drain off.
Cody and I took a quick walk when we got back and within an hour, the rain started. Slow at first, then nothing. But the weather channel was saying that around 10:00 a big storm would be here.
Jack and Cathie came over to check on us as the rain poured down. We were both watching the radar, tracking the bright yellow and red zones as they approached the notch in the land mass where we were camped. They said they’d come and get us if it got too bad.
I packed a survival bag with my wallet, a flashlight, a bottle of water, my phone and charger.
I called Marika. She was tracking the storm on her big TV screen. Tornado Watch, Flood Watch. I told her about the neighbors coming to get us and she reminded me to bring a bowl and water for Cody. And my headlight.
I plugged in my phone to charge it and laid down, trying to rest. It was already past my bedtime and I was tired. And anxious.
I checked the radar on wunderground every ten minutes, texting Marika with updates, trying to stay calm. Cody was alert, but I told him he was fine and that we were safe, and he put his head down and closed his eyes.
And then at 10:45 pm, Jack knocked on the RV door. A tornado was spotted three miles away and the Weather Service had just put up the official Tornado Warning. I grabbed my bag, locked the RV and we got in their truck and drove over to the concrete bathrooms near the Rec Hall. Rain poured down. The thunder cracked so loud and close that the lights went out for a moment. It was pouring and thundering and the lightning lit up the sky all around. But there was no wind.
Cathie was telling me about the tornado they had in Missouri, and how they all went down to the cellar, all the kids and grandkids, the dogs and the cat. I kept watching the radar on my iPhone, texting Marika, not wanting to get caught in Cathie’s hints of panic.
Cody was unphased. He stood near me, watching the rain, and he didn’t even flinch at the thunder. I felt calm and safe and I guess he did too.
Jack held his weather radio up to his ear, full volume and it was still hard to hear. I watched the circle of yellow and red radar move on the screen just below the edge of Goose Island. There was still a wide trail of yellow and green coming, but the red section was moving out over the water.
And then the Tornado Warning changed back to a Watch and we drove back to camp. We were wet and tired, but it was a loud and thundering night so we didn’t get much sleep. So on Saturday, we stayed home, reading, writing and walking around the campground between downpours.
This is how full-timing is different than just camping. There is no rush to have to see everything or always be doing something. Instead, I’m following the energies of each day.
On Sunday I just wanted to sleep. I had the dry heaves, and a bit of a chill so I cancelled the plan to drive to Port Aransas and got back under the covers. I guess the stress of the weather the past days had taken its toll. Cody was also happy to just lie around, so we spent most of the morning in and out of bed.
After noon I called Marika, cried a little bit then took a shower and ate some saltines. I was beginning to feel better. It was too muggy to spend much time outside, but in the late afternoon I got together with some friends of a FaceBook friend. We went to dinner and talked about books and travel and had a delightful time.
Cody and I played ball in the campsite and I caught up with Facebook and email, then plugged in my mapping information for the next day’s drive.
On Monday Cody and I drove from Rockport to Galveston Island, an easy 172 miles that included a stop in Blessing, TX. Cody and I walked around the small grassy park of the Blessing Community Center, thinking of all the friends who asked me to say a blessing for them, and saying such big thank you’s for so many blessings so far.
Blessings for safe weather. And great camp neighbors. And new friends. And two kinds of OFF Deep Woods. And air conditioning. And postcard-making supplies. And bird songs. And easy driving miles. And gas no higher than $2.29/gal. And a level camp site that didn’t flood. And the best camping dog. And the love and support of so many people, known and not, who hold me in their hearts.
Between Leaving and Arriving
On Wednesday morning the water pump light was still working on the monitor panel. The night before, a dear friend’s husband said that he was convinced it had been a loose wire, probably at the switch, and that the air conditioner probably caused just enough vibration to make it work. He was sure that all was fine.
And so I drove to the gas station on Wednesday morning, thinking that the vibration of the drive would be a good test. The monitor light still worked, and so I kept going.
Cody settled into his bed under the dinette and we got on the I-10 and drove south and east. We got gas outside of Tucson – I like to fill the tank when it gets to half, especially when I’m driving across the desert where gas towns can be far and few between.
We drove a few more hours, across the state line into New Mexico and pulled into our camp spot at City of Rocks State Park, 35 miles north of Deming, around 3:00, which was 4:00 in New Mexico.
It was an easy, but long six hours and I was glad to be parked in the middle of nowhere, with no cell reception, no internet, no neighbors. Just me and Cody and the towering boulders and the wind. We walked up the road for a vista view, we explored the trails that roamed around the towering boulders and we played with an eight-foot-long ocotillo skeleton that Cody managed to maneuver across the campsite and up onto the raised picnic pad. I moved it a few inches with my foot and then he grabbed it with his mouth and pulled it further. Your turn, my turn, we moved it across the picnic area and over to the other side of the camp site.
We both slept well, but in the morning, after a few short ball tosses in the road, he was walking with an odd turn in his right hip. And he was staying really close to me. I remembered that he had skid on his back legs the morning before in Marika’s back yard. So we shortened our walk just enough for him to do his business, and then we pulled out.
I was determined to get to Hobbs that afternoon, even though the evening’s Heart Sparks workshop had been cancelled because I just wasn’t sure if I was going to be able to make it.
Still, Deb, the woman who had set up everything and was doing the book-making part of the evening, was going to drive over to the venue just in case someone showed up, and I wanted to join her.
But as I drove further across New Mexico, I wondered, why am I even doing this? There’s no workshop. Maybe I’m not supposed to be on this trip. I can still turn around….
But I knew that was nonsense. That I just had to cry my way through it. And I realized that I am tired. And that I am still in that space between leaving and arriving.
It’s like when I left home for college. Even though I was going to school less than an hour away, I was terrified to leave the safety and security of home. EVEN THOUGH I HATED IT and was so ready to start my own life. But in that middle space, I didn’t want to leave and I didn’t want to stay, I just wanted to curl up in my bed forever.
This journey is different. I’m not terrified of what is coming, I just don’t feel very strong in it. Yet. Yesterday morning heading to Austin, again I thought about turning around, going home. But of course it was just a reaction to the tears, to the tightness in the center of my chest when I hear myself say I have no idea where I’m going.
This morning, Tuesday, we took a walk and then I read my email. My father needs to delay the second $5000 that I had counted on. And the woman I was going to meet on Wednesday is busy. And the Junk Cathedral isn’t open for viewing. And it is so muggy here.
I know, deep in, that these are all smoke and mirrors to distract me from doing what I know I am meant to do. So I keep coming back to WHY. And that’s what these next days are for. To ground myself in nature. To settle in. To camp. To explore the nature trails and to walk and write and talk with people and see what there is to see, really see.
I unplugged the RV and drove over to the Lower Falls in the park. Cody and I walked across the moonscape of exposed boulders. We kept walking, until finally we came to the edge of the rocks where, below us, more rocks formed several still pools of water. Across from where we stood was a lush riparian area where a single white egret was cleaning its wings in the water. It was beautiful and solitary and I cried and cried.
The two hiking women I had seen in the parking lot came over the rocks and pointed to a faint path under the water line. When I asked, one of them said that it’s the same path used by the earliest people in the area. They were hoping to cross it to the other side, but the water was deeper than they had planned for. They were going to drive around to the other side. So they turned around and walked back to the parking lot and we followed a few yards behind. It was getting muggy and I just wanted to go back to camp to cry some more.
I cry because I’m not making money. I cry because I wonder what I’m doing. I cry because this is all so big. I cry because it is all on me, because I’m not the model of a fun and happy camper, because I have to keep emptying and letting go, over and over, making room for the new.
I had two hours before two Facebook friends were picking me up to go for lunch and some city sightseeing. I read. I wrote. I answered work emails. And when they pulled up, it was like I’d been saved. They were warm and generous and easy going and such a delight to be with.
After some love time with Cody (yes, they brought him a variety of treats), I locked him in the RV with the windows open and they took me to their favorite restaurant on Austin Lake. Our conversations were comfortable and easy, like we’d been friends for years. No drama. No pretense. Just three women having a really nice time together.
I had a list of odd places that I wanted to see and they were so happy to oblige. The Cathedral of Junk was amazing even if we could only see it from behind the DO NOT TRESPASS signs. And they had wanted to go the Umlauf Sculpture Garden, too. On the drive back to camp, we even stopped for some famous Sandy’s frozen custard. We had such a nice time that we’re getting together again tomorrow!
And I realize that THIS is what this journey is about. Really showing up and connecting with people, heart to heart.
Like yesterday, on my way to camp I stopped to visit with a Facebook friend to celebrate that she’s done with radiation. It was a short visit, but so heart warming for both of us. And her husband fixed the lock on the RV storage compartment and Cody was gifted all of their last dog’s toys. And she even gave me the green calcite crystal that I had picked up from her altar.
More signs have appeared today. I heard back from my Asheville Unity contact and we are working on a date. So many people on Facebook posted their love and support when I was needing it. And a Mac client inquired about some in-person training when I am in New Orleans.
Yes, this is a solo journey, but I know I am not traveling alone. And even when I fall into that deep space of doubt and uncertainty, there is a deeper knowing that I really am on my true path, that I am exactly where I need to be, doing exactly what I am supposed to be doing. And that I can be a little gentler with myself about it all and start to really enjoy this grand adventure.
