Road trip
Yesterday I wrote about a woman staring at a wall. A screen. Her own face in the mirror. About how numbness is its own kind of feeling - an oceanic depth space that is not empty but dense with feeling not ready to move.
It is moving now — in the world. In the conversation we are having. When it moves, the ache begins. Last night and the night before, it moved in my dreams.
I dreamed of a chateau. An impermanent house, rented but fully occupied with joy, with liveliness. Now, we were preparing for departure. As I bustled around, stripping sheets, packing belongings into trunks and boxes, I saw, across the hall, a young quiet woman painting on the walls. Oh no! I thought and ran in to manage the damage. But these were magnificent works of art! Frescoes of bright color that she’d hidden beneath white, cardboard architectural models.
Just then, I heard a shout from the street - and laughter. A young man that I knew from a new class I was taking. I called to him and he waved, heading up the ramp to meet me. That’s when I noticed another man gazing after my friend with such longing. I called out: Go back and invite him too. They came inside and the longing one kissed me on the mouth - in gratitude. You saw me! he said. Thank you. The men sat at a table with all their friends. The women continued preparing for departure. I stood between rooms smiling.
That was Monday night. Last night was different.
As the sun rose, I dreamed of an ancient tree being uprooted by two hired workers. Unable to speak, I watched as they wrapped it in chains and pulled it from the soil. I wandered the garden, finding shards and broken branches. I collapsed in grief. My children knelt beside me. From the next room, my husband watched silently.
Something is moving. Someone is grieving. Someone is watching.
This morning, I am taking a car trip - a six day journey. Three days in the car. Slowly making my way to Vermont for Mother’s Day weekend with my son and daughter-in-law. It’s only a five hour drive but I’ve decided to extend it. To make a retreat, of sorts — the kind I used to love — using the skills I developed on my 40-day cross-country drive in 2017.
I’ll melt into the stream of cars and become like a fish, swimming down the highway, led by instinct and the voice of my GPS. I will feel my way there. Drive a little. Stop a little. I’ll explore a new town. Walk around. Find a cafe. I’ll write and people watch. Browse bookstores and vintage shops and poke through layers of old doors and windows in some architectural salvage warehouse.
I will sleep in hotels. Not Airbnb. A dream is unfurling. I want a neutral canvas.
In the car, I’ve packed the Money Tree plant that I gave my son last Christmas, when it was too cold for him to drive it home. It’s nearly doubled in size. These plants grow so fast.
A bottle of water. A cooler of road food. My Kindle and laptop and … oh, I must remember those charging cables. #NotesToSelf
The dreams are moving now. Numb spaces are awakening. What was hidden is appearing. What was under the surface is rising. Everything is melting even as it’s all becoming visible.
Notice what is moving in your life - in your body, your dreams. Don’t interpret yet. Let it come. Let it rise— a dream, a symptom, a thought from out of the blue.
Enjoy the ride… maybe a stopover on the way home?