Adaptive equipment

Adaptive Equipment

One week has passed, and, though I have no complaints about living in the woods, being guarded by the legendary Bitterroots, I’m less settled in the cabin than expected. 

I feel there’s a specific purpose for my being here, waiting to be found, and I’ve turned that purpose into a task called a book.  I’ve arrived and time to go to work, but I’m trying to frame a picture before it’s been taken.  I’m getting in my own way again, trying to interfere with how well things have been going.  I find myself forcing story lines, timelines and searching too intently for a nice little bow, whereas, everything I’ve written so far has been inspired and found without a search.  I have two friends who tirelessly listen to my ideas, and one finally asked, “Are you more excited about the process or the final product?” – the journey versus the destination.

At times I want to skip to the final product.  I want to see a mile marker on this new highway, and unfortunately, at times, I still define the mile markers monetarily and incrementally.  One dollar, two dollar…so far, zero dollar.  The good news is I’ve been able to cram a year’s budget into only four months…  alriiiiiiight. 

I leapt the biggest leap of faith I’ve ever taken (more of a stumbling out my front door), trusting God’s hand to guide every mile.  If this rig runs out of fuel before I notice the fuel gauge, I’ll accept that and park wherever I am.  I hope by then my five-year-old has matured enough to exhibit peace and thankfulness for the time I did have being a gypsy.  I’d not trade the last four months for a good bowl of chili.  I also know my life is not defined by being on the road, but rather how well I can read the map.   

Most of my days are, truthfully, spent in a state of euphoric gratefulness like I’ve never known prior.  I still say out loud “Yes, this is your life right now”, which causes me to do silly things like: stop in the middle of the highway because a herd of pronghorn are in the field; or, wander aimlessly backward through the grocery parking lot, marveling at the mountains across the road.  If you hear on the news about some flip-flopped Texan falling off a bridge or being run over by a herd of elk….   I just spoke to a lady whose friend and daughter were mauled by a moose.  They had to escape face down in a pile of mud to disappear.  We also have a moose that is obsessed with the automatic doors of a local hospital.   

The first real winter storm hit this week, dumping quite a bit of snow just north of me and is pushing the temperatures into the teens overnight for the next week.   Yesterday, I pulled over, this time to the side of the highway, to watch snow clouds descend on the west bank.  Cotton ball blankets floated down the east slopes, billowing like clouds of blue tinged satin dust.  The clouds diminished as they slid down the mountainside, as if being scraped off like cheese crumbling against the cold granite cliffs.

I’m diving into the community with both feet.  I have the art show next weekend, and I’ve visited several places frequently enough to be recognized.  I’ll be joining a Wednesday bowling league, mid-season, as their fourth became ill.  I have a weekly “Old Guys Drinking Beer” group on Thursdays, and twice a month Hamilton hosts a Writer’s Circle that I’m considering visiting.  It does conflict with bowling… my schedule is so hectic these days.

The reality is, I have trust issues, still, with God.  He knows what I’m talking about – we’ve had some discussions.  I have no trouble trusting Him for my adventures, recognizing the plethora of confounding confirmations in a quick four months, knowing His giftings and blessings have made this possible, to the degree of tipping my hat to His words speaking through my fingers.  There is no way I possess the writing aptitude without help. 

Stephen King is quoted saying, “If you don’t have time to read, you don’t have time (nor the tools) to write”.

A friend of thirty years called me from the Philippines to speak on one of my writings, and in the middle of a sentence he interjected, “Man, where’d you learn to write like this?  I never saw you read”.  I have read a ton of books: Anatomy and Physio, Biomechanics, Organic Chem, Neuroanatomy, but a mainstream book has got to grab me quickly as well as maintain a uniqueness throughout. 

I have written all my life and spent time in many English classrooms.  However, a minor in English will not suffice as a degree in composition, hence the nod to my divine schoolmarm.

Tenth grade English class took us through a series on short stories.  One in particular told of a young man returning home after some time away, finding his father older and frailer than he expected.  The following five pages described, in painfully detailed exactness, the entire process of the son shaving his father’s face.  The teacher asked us what the theme being illustrated was, and we met her with blank stares as she held us after the bell, in a portable, during a Texas thunderstorm.

“Maturity!” I eventually rang out.  (I actually read this one.)  The teacher set us free.

Thirty years later, my dad was in hospital, paralyzed from the shoulders down. Barely able to move his arms, he nodded to the three razors laying on the side table between us.   “Your mother says I need to shave.”

Moments later I’m in tears, remembering the story like picking up a favorite fountain pen I’d forgotten about, shaving dad’s face.  He finally uttered a rare comedic comment and the task was done.  He passed a week later.

I never know when the seeds planted yesterday will sprout.  Sometimes the seeds lay dormant for thirty years.  Sometimes a seed requires a fire in order to wake from its slumber.  Sometimes seeds bloom overnight, leaving me with a bumper crop that demands being shared so nothing spoils.  I’ve searched, without luck, for that English teacher, Ms. Leslie Bowling (as I knew her), for ten years in hopes of sharing how she impacted my life thirty years on.  I believe it’s important to reach out to previous mentors to let them know their efforts were ultimately fruitful.

I’m developing different mirrors for different reflections.  I’ve figured out the bathroom mirror.  I usually feel the most disoriented in the mornings.  Metaphorically, mornings are a perfect time to reflect directly, applying ‘deodorant’ so I don’t stink up the world, standing confidently upright, and lacing my boots with courage for the day.

I like the rear view mirror for occasional spot checks, glancing from where I’ve come for posterity, watching it fade, then look forward again.  I’ve glared into the rear view mirror for far too long, aimlessly spewing blame and lament that poisoned my world like ink being dropped into a cup of water.

So much of life flew by in a blur because I was too reliant on rear and side mirrors.  My rig’s rear view is inverted currently, so it’s not even accurate.  It’s most useful for making sure I haven’t lost my ass on the road.  That’s about it.  I much prefer the six-foot wide by three-foot high front windshield.  Even though it’s a bit dirty from life’s travels, that dirt was part of my life, so it comes with me.

Today, I lay down my plans.  The previous four months have been a warm-up, training wheels, on the bicycle ride of my life.  I feel my stride steadying without the trainers, learning that staying upright and balanced is easier with forward motion.  Just as Mr. Gump ran his braces off, so shall I continue to peddle the bicycle of life.  I have no desire to keep looking back at the pile of braces and hardware I’ve just shed.