The weather did indeed turn obscenely cold and wet here, driving us all inside, even Banjo. I remember this feeling from back before we were living on the road, a feeling almost of relief, that the frenzy of summer—of outdoor living, of dirty feet and itchy bug bites and drinking one too many beers in front of some band outside—is giving way to a more ordered life. That used to be based on the school schedule for Finn (and myself), which led to a cleaner house, an organized calendar. An odd relief found in looking at a full calendar and knowing what the future held.
The past three days, instead of sitting with my laptop for maybe ten minutes a day outside under the pussy willow, I’ve been sitting upstairs at my ReStore desk, looking outside at the rain, shuffling my online calendar, finding all my notes about my manuscript in the odd places I’d stored them online and on my iPad.
On the road before we had Starlink, I couldn’t count on good cell signal so I stored a bunch of files right on the iPad. Once the miracle of Starlink fell upon us (I remember that day, in Brownsville coincidentally, a few miles from Jack Ass’s StarBase), I moved a few important files to the cloud, but I never finished the move, and now my files are scattered.
So, the manuscript start will need to be rewritten according to my notes from that writing coach, notes that are important and that I’d insanely forgotten about. I wrote those notes in Utah at Dinosaur National Monument. I never know when I did something from the road, only where.
My notes about renovation are scattered, in their own way. Old wish-list images from when we thought we’d keep the kitchen in its current location. I’d forgotten about those. I’m trying to merge them with my notes for the current plan, for the great room, I’ll call it, which is tricky because the kitchen will share a wall with the living room.
Further in the piddling department, where exactly can my writing desk go during the five months of renovation: facing a bedroom window that looks out over the front sidewalk? Or tilted 45 degrees, facing the wall so I can use a bulletin board?
I much prefer to wrangle these tiny problems. I much prefer to write an entire page about changes in weather, in the house, in the book.
I met with a new therapist today, and, aside from the fact that she might be half my age, I kind of like her.
I once saw a therapist back before nomad life, in Maryland, but not much came from that … we seemed to always be talking in circles. I saw another, virtually, for about a month while I was traveling in Texas, and I liked her quite a lot, but I had to move on, and she was certified only in that one state. Next up was an EMDR therapist recommended by a knowledgeable fulltimer, but something went askew in our work together, and I didn’t realize she was performing EMDR on me at the time. Strange.
When I filled up my list of new medical providers here in Wisconsin, I saw yet another therapist I liked a lot. He’s the angel who told me about renting a rack for our kayaks. He didn’t have much experience with grief, though. He recommended someone who did, but shortly after our first meeting, when something seemed off with her so I looked her up online, I discovered that her previous practice was all faith-based. As in, Jesus-centered. The fact that she led this previous professional life did not bug me, but the fact that she failed to mention it when I asked her pointedly about her past, that really did. She was declared OUT.
So, here’s someone new. Someone young, for better or worse. We began our relationship laughing. She said we could do some work in creating my new identity. In finding me friends. She says she specializes in “inter-generational trauma.” Well, now. That she likes to “push on the pain.” From my 15-minute summary of the full gamut of deaths in my family, of my witnessing, or participating in, every one of them (missing one crucial death), she could tell I felt a good deal of guilt. And responsibility. Well, damn straight. Who wouldn’t?
So, I am staying up way too late, watching Jim Kirk hold another lovely alien woman in his arms, brainstorming wall colors with my friend Jacqui in New Zealand, eating the last blueberry muffin made for me by an anonymous neighbor. I took down two tomato plants today during a break in the rain.
Time to move on, from the disorder and chaos of my previous life, to the predictability of a calendar, at least. To files all in the same place, to renovations on the cusp.
To searching for, maybe creating a recognizably soulful self, now that my physical self has gotten its act together.
