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.

My Aspirations, My Inspirations

Gnarled fingers wrap around fraying canvas handles. Hunched over with the weight of milk and eggs, celery and carrots in an initial-embroidered Bean bag (they all look the same on the ferry, uh-yuh), the female elders of the island trudge up the shifting metal platform to solid (granite) land. They don’t ask for help but accept a hand if there happens to be a willing one nearby. They have sunspotted arms and faces and don’t bother wearing makeup most of the time. Their hair is short and a spectrum of uncolored grays.

Who needs to bother with such things on an island where the leaves change from deep green to fiery red to earthy brown each year and the transformation and march towards decay is a welcomed spectacle?
Where the tides are continually altering the lines and curves of the shore with their ebb and flow.
Where time is (truly) kept by (summer) marriages and (winter) deaths and (keep the school going!) babies born.
Where the technicolor sunsets are generally remembered more often than the fog shrouded sunrises.
Where you know your neighbor and their neighbor and so on in a circular path around this island of (about) 350 (births, deaths, weddings) and everyone knows what you look like without makeup and hair dye anyway but they also still remember you as a child jumping off the pier or when you would go cod fishing with your husband when there were still cod to fish.

They are the fiercest, most beautiful women I know.

She has reached her car. Not a car, but a truck. I am surprised. I was expecting a beat up sedan (the car of choice on the island where cars go to die) with torn seats and muddy floor mats (only $300 from a nice young man on the mainland). How will she climb into the cab? How will she see over the dashboard? How will she navigate these narrow roads? Of course she could do it by feel and probably does. She slings her Bean bags into the truck bed and smiles as I walk by.

She radiates confidence.

I want to be her in 50 years. But I want to learn from her now. I want to learn from all these elders with soft hands and mighty stories. On an island where tales of the sea, of farming, of childhood and marriages are told and retold and listened to because that is what you do when you stop by someone’s house not for sugar or to complain about their dog but just to say hello.
To stay for a cup of tea in a warm kitchen with a fire in the wood stove and a cat sleeping on the seat next to you
To sit with another person until the talking is done, without glancing every five minutes at your phone or apologizing for having somewhere else to be.
To let go of schedules and anxiety because fall is here and the summer people are gone and it is time to breathe and watch the yellow leaves from the birches swirl to the ground and create a carpet of gold on the island floor.

I look down at my own sun spotted (freckled) hands carrying Bean bags. I wonder if I will be lucky enough to own a truck to climb into when I am 85 and drive to my home among the pines and maples and birches. As I climb into that truck with these hands that will grow happily calloused with many more stories, will I have a younger woman unintentionally cock her head and smile? Will I know exactly what she is thinking and smile right on back?

If I have my way and I make it that long, You Betcha.
But for now I will sit, listen, and love these souls that inspire with every hunched, gnarled, and absolutely beautiful step.