My Memories Are A Big Rig

I am surrounded by metal and plastic and glass. I am hurled down the highway by the force of my own thoughts, my right foot heavy on the accelerator, my left foot lazy beneath the clutch. Memories are tailgating, clawing at the crooked bumper, undeterred by plumes of exhaust and potholes in this road. I am staring into the sun as it sets, the maples and birches and pines competing for attention (unruly siblings) in colorful swatches along my path. A crisp red brown leaf is stuck under a wiper. It flutters onto asphalt as I pull to a rumbling stop for a cup of coffee, to rub my eyes, to stretch cramped legs.
I am alone.
I am present: in the aches in my body and heaviness of my eyes. With the sight of bare branches above me framing the sliver of the moon rising above a tree-softened hillside. As a slight breeze reminds me of what is outside of my sequestering metal shell. I breathe in this moment of here. Light wells up from my core.

It is cold. I climb back into the car and am reassured by its gravelly mumbling and sighing as I shift gears and steer us onto the misty highway. A carcass of a moth clings to metal at the base of the windshield. Has it been there since Maine? Or did it crawl and heave and expire in the West Virginia night? I breathe into cupped hands and steer with my knees. When the car swerves towards the median I think better of this and lay my palms one at a time on the weak heater vent. I feign controlling my destiny. I glance in the rearview mirror, my eyes focused on what I think I see. The road is empty but the shadows of memories are still close behind.

My thoughts ignore the seasonal patterns, ignore the duck calls and seniors’ winter plans. My thoughts stream back up north despite my protestations. I want to leave the Maine in my head where it is. I want to let go of mussel shell beaches and striped buoys and gardens sidling up to the sea. I want to let the past slip under, let it float downstream and disappear beyond the bend. But the more I resist, the more it floods my head. The more I deny, the stronger the flow. I pull over to the side of the road and the past is upon me. It engulfs the car and I go under. I can do nothing but sit and cry, sit and write, sit and be. I am grateful for the baptism, my own well providing the blessing. For the rebirth of every moment.
All is still.
The night carries on.

I pull back onto the road and don’t bother to check my rearview mirror. I know that the memories are still there, that they may catch up to me once again, that another flood of emotions may pull me over. It is not about shaking the memories, eluding the past. It is realizing that every moment, action, feeling of love hate sadness passion has paved this road I am traveling upon. They are the composite foundation for every future moment, action, emotion.  I am grateful for the moon and stars reflecting on tar and sand.

I keep driving into the muted darkness and trust that this road will lead me home.

My compass is strong. But my belief that there is no wrong direction is (needs to be) stronger.

Fragile: Handle Like Eggs

Breakdown
Breakthrough
Breaking ground for new thoughts feelings adventures.

Tears well up and stream down my face on the freeway as I pass nonexistent trees and empty lots full of car corpses, the memories of paved-over neighborhoods, the scummy haze creeping over the horizon. I scream into the windshield and beat the steering wheel. I sob and open the windows and let my hair flail and tangle in my snot and spit. I laugh because I know in Southern California this behavior is (kinda) normal. We emote in our public privacy. We are enclosed in glass and metal and are alone if we ignore our rear view mirrors and just stare at the taillights ahead. We sing at the top of our lungs and yell obscenities at the off-ramps and weep into our consoles.

I have been driven back here. When the drumbeats cease and the horns are only echoes in my head I nod at my friends, run a sweaty hand over warm-from-dancing backs, slip out the door. I walk towards the water searching out the curve of hulls and the skyward stretching of masts. I listen for the seagulls and the hollow snap of fish breaking the surface to snack. The lights of downtown cascade nighttime shadows over the bay. The bay! I sailed out of here with bioluminescent dolphins at the bow ten years ago with dreams of never coming back.
We were done San Diego, you and I.
At times like these I measure my life in nautical miles and 30,000 clicks and many lifetimes later here I am again staring up at skyscrapers and hills and wondering why I'm back.
Why I keep coming back.
(But I already know the answer.)
The breaking of hearts.
The breaking of bread.
The breaking waves calling me to surf and sit and contemplate.
The breaking of expectations of what or where I will be in another ten years.
The break with the past.
Breakdown
Breakthrough