135.

[For the creative artist must be a world of his own and must find everything within himself and in nature, to which he has betrothed himself. -rilke]

We humans have a tendency to want to know where we are going, in both the existential sorta way and in the very literal way. It isn’t often that we wander about, directionless, but…sometimes you gotta get in your car and just drive.

I left work on Friday and was unable to quiet my mind. I wanted to be driving to my very own "farm." My personal sanctuary – a pocketful of land, a porch, quiet, maybe a few other living things I have to tend to. My daydreaming of this space is nothing new - this imaginary corner has existed  in my mind as a constant whisper for most of my adult life, but Friday the craving I had for this dream to be a reality was overwhelming.

The desire was a holler rather than a whisper. How does a late-twenty something woman with no building skills, limited farming skills, and a helluva lot of vision make this dream into a reality? It all seemed too big for me. My own dream, the one that I created by my lonesome, felt too big for it’s own creator. Super bummer. So I came home on Friday and wrote a song, smashed some apples into cider, and tried not to trouble on my dreams too much.

Then Saturday came, as it always does, and I woke up with that same steady holler to go to the country. This time I did the best I could to answer: I packed up my water, coffee, whittling tools, journal, and Rilke’s Letters to a Young Poet and just left. No destination, no inclination of what I might do, how far I’d go, or anything. I just left, literally, for greener pastures. It was the best thing.

I grew up going on long drives through the country…I grew up with space. With room for thoughts to stretch out, imaginations to somersault into creation, and with time to let it all happen. I'm still unsure how to recreate that in living in a city environment, but I did my best.

I drove west for a little over an hour listening to an old timey station on the radio and appreciating the patience radio forces us to practice. Rather than skipping to the next song, I realized, we just have to accept when it comes to the radio…we have to wait; a sort of lesson in the ordinary…where many of those lessons live.

Eventually city morphed into country. I smelled cows, I saw hills, and I stopped in a place called Orange. After writing to myself by a little pond, I photographed the tired old blacksmith shop, then walked around town until I stumbled into Gary’s antique warehouse. I fingered through his piles and piles of treasure: old photographs of families on cars, beautiful frames, old domino sets, for about twenty minutes before he finally appeared. He told me it wasn’t actually a shop, that it was his warehouse, but allowed me to stay and poke around anyhow. While I looked through piles of postcards we got to talking and he was a pretty open old guy, who after a while seemed glad to have my company. He took me next door to his other abandoned sewing building filled with dusty remnants of lives passed, and showed me his collection of saws, and took me out back to his land to show me the waterfall created by the dam. I thanked him for his kindness as I left, and he told me his day was better just because my snoopy old self, and I’ll be damned, but Gary and his curiosity, his openness to be kind to a stranger, felt like the best gift the universe has given me all week. I bought an old green toolbox from him that had a busted set of dentures inside…the teeth were half the charm so he let me keep ‘em.

Driving farther still I happened upon some horses, ponds, and other weary barns that seemed forgotten. I sat beside a pond and played the guitar for a while and felt good and strong in my wanderings; in not knowing where I was going.

There is something quite heavy about the recognition that we might just have to go after this life of ours alone, but there is also something pretty good about remembering what good company you can be for yourself, with a little old-timey tunes, sunshine, and strangers who are willing to welcome you in.

As the weekend comes to a close I am thankful for Gary, the rolling hills of Western, Massachusetts, and the push or pull of that dynamic dream that often seems a little too big for my britches, but keeps me hustling anyhow. 

some of my treasures from Orange:

[this old postcard's story]

April 14, 1967

Mary, I watched an alligator kill and eat a catfish under this walk and had the whole pool to myself at the motel before dinner...Have a wonderful vacation and say "hi" to everybody, Nancy

my toothy green toolbox

this photo, because of the message on the back.