The car was already packed when I woke up on Thursday morning. I had planned a new route, unnecessarily long, detouring through autumn forest and along less-traveled state highways to reach the coastal highway (Hwy 101) at a different point, to enjoy a drive I don’t recall ever taking. It more or less doubled the length of the drive, but I was specifically not in any hurry, and I knew my “early check-in” wasn’t going to be available that early, anyway. I took my walk close to home, on a familiar trail, well-maintained, well-traveled, level, familiar and easy. It was a good plan. I hit the road heading to the coast comfortably after daybreak, to enjoy the fall colors.
It was a lovely morning for a drive. Along the way I thought about my Granny, and the many drives we took together, and the detours and side trips she loved so much. I saw so many things and enjoyed so many adventures with my Granny. She raised me through my tumultuous high school years, and I realize now that she surely knew about my brain injury, though she didn’t discuss it with me explicitly. She gave me the love and the safe environment I needed, to learn and grow and – recover. Was she a perfect person? No, of course not. Taking my own Mother and my aunts at their word, she was maybe not even a very good mother to her own daughters, at all. She was raising 4 (and later more) kids, and often as a single mother, in an era when women were still very much viewed as needing to be attached to some man or another. She was strong – to the point of ferocity – and she could be unyielding. I never doubted that she loved me dearly though, and I value her love and guidance to this day.
I pass by the remnants of an old fort. It’s the sort of place she would have stopped. She’d drive an hour on a Sunday morning just to enjoy “the best cinnamon buns in the USA!” in a town rather farther away than most folks would drive for a cinnamon bun, and she’d make a 4 hour detour on a long drive just to see an old schoolhouse. lol She took me to see historic sights all over, everywhere she lived. She would dig in and do more research, and share what she learned, sometimes sneaking a cutting of a rose bush growing there, to plant at her house when we returned. I drove thinking about the drives we shared over the years that I lived with her. So many miles. So many sights. So much wisdom and perspective and shared conversation. Looking back, I know I must have been fucking insufferable. lol Teenagers often are. It’s a feature, not a bug, and trying out new perspectives is one of the ways we become who we will be. She was so patient with me. So willing to talk – and to listen. I pay attention to the sights along my drive, and it becomes a way to honor her memory.
I stop at a wayside with a view of the ocean. I take a couple pictures and just stand there enjoying the view, before reading all the signs. It’s not that I had any particular use for the information, I stopped for the view and to stretch my legs. I found some of the information interesting, like the map showing all the nearby other sights and way points, and places to camp. I smile to myself; I think my Granny would have liked the signage. I chuckled to myself as I got back on the road. No traffic – my timing was excellent and the weather was lovely.
I drove on thinking about the contrast in my relationship with my Granny, and my Mother (her daughter, and eldest child). My Mother always seemed, to me, to be intensely practical, but it was finding her college binder of her poetry, written in ink in that familiar handwriting, that inspired me to write long before my Granny’s writing of children’s stories (that never were published) would later inspire me to continue writing. My Mother’s poetry was poignant and romantic, moody and emotional – like the poetry of young women often is. Her poetry revealed a stranger to me. When she caught me reading it, the moment was awkward and filled with quiet tension. She took the notebook from my hand. I never found it again, though I searched the bookcases and the drawers of the secretary for it over and over again.
I don’t think I ever truly understood my Mother, and we were never very close (as I understand closeness, myself). She seemed “cold” to me in my adolescence. Reserved and private, and reluctant to share confidences when I was an adult. We never really “clicked” – or perhaps we were too much alike for her to feel entirely comfortable with me? I never knew. We were in touch on and off throughout my life and to the end of hers, though it was clear from conversations with my sister that my Mother didn’t speak of it. There were even years when she told strangers and new acquaintances that she had “two children” instead of three. I never asked why. She never mentioned it to me. My Mother was, in many ways, a closed book with a fascinating cover. I regret that we weren’t closer, but I learned from her that such things can’t be forced. I learned a lot from her. I learned from her to believe people when they tell you who they are. I learned from her that “family” is a word. Just a word. I learned from her that there’s real lasting value in learning to count on myself, and that no one can take my education from me – though it may not pay off in the way I may have expected it to.
…I learned from my Mother than choices have consequences.
There was a lot to my Mother, and I never knew her well. She remains quite a mystery to me, though she had quite a lot to do with becoming the woman I eventually did become, and the woman I am today. I drove on, thinking about these two women and the woman I am, myself. I think about their expectations, their encouragement – and my choices.
It was an interesting drive. Time well-spent. I’ve continued to think over the life lessons I learned from these women (and others), as I rest and relax and reflect – and grieve. I feel inspired, but… it’s slippery. The paintings I want most to paint feel “just out of reach”. I play in the colors, and let the memories come and go. I’ve needed this quiet time to reflect and consider and sift through the emotions. It’s been an emotional year, and I honestly wasn’t ready for all of it. I needed some time alone with the woman in the mirror.
Yesterday, sometime in the early afternoon, I found myself stalled with a terrible headache, and had a panick attack on top of that. It was severe and made me feel sick with dread and overwhelmed with pain and emotion and I ended up “doing all the things” to manage it, with limited success. I finally just went to bed, hoping to wake feeling better (which I did). I spent a restless night of strange dreams, listening to the wind and the rain, waking now and then, and returning to sleep. I woke at daybreak, and watched the soggy sunrise, gray and wet and featureless. The day has been a good one, aside from the blustery stormy weather, which I don’t really mind. The views have been pretty spectacular. I’ve taken some good pictures.
Evening has come. I watched the light dwindle and fade away. More rain. More wind. Another night of it. This time no headache, and I’m enjoying that. I listen to the sound of a fire crackling on a hearth – it isn’t “real”, just a video, nonetheless I feel warmed by it, which amuses me. I sit with a cup of tea – finding a couple tea bags of my favorite tucked into my overnight bag, forgotten from my last trip, was a delightful moment. Enjoying it now is pleasantly satisfying and soul nurturing. I write awhile, thinking about these women who loved me and helped me along life’s path at a tender age, and how far I’ve come since then. It’s been a hell of a journey, and it’s not over yet. There’s so much still to see along the way.
Tomorrow I’ll begin again.
Evening Light 