The Pages

Page 4

I took an intense Ministry of the Interior variety of inventory one overwhelming morning and something inside me snapped. I could not stand the company of my parents. I had not spent time with them in years and years, but my mother had planned herself an eightieth birthday party that I was going to be expected to attend. My son had established loudly that he hated me. I was weary of the reality that I did not fit in any social circle and that I did not think like anyone else I knew. I did not like the God on any level and had not prayed since I was twenty-five. I was protected best by myself and cagey about revealing in a naked way what had made me the way I am. And the cushion of my ordinary and decent life was not a foundation that could sustain me any longer. Not even Tank could remedy my insides of crushed and confused and cower.

So, I carried a hastily packed bag out to my Jeep and drove away from my very good life.

It has been suggested to me by someone in the book business that my pages are a series of words that are not about me, but about minutia. Their take was that you might not find these chapters particularly captivating or action-packed. But, in the seeming unimportant details of the people I saw and interacted with during my irresponsible adventure, I found things out about me that I didn’t know.

I could tell you more of the grim and graphic details of the various assaults on my tiny life, but those rememberings did not show me who I am. They are my facts. They are not my truths.
Until I ran away and started noticing how my think works, I did not know as much about me.

So that’s what you are in for. The trivia of my travel that led to my transform. Descriptions of the ordinary that were my awakening. My notice.
There is a slow and indeliberate overcome. There is the coming to terms not with my history, but with my present—with my presence. It is not so much about what happened to me, but how it colored me. Purpose pressed by pain. Understanding wrapped in mystery.

A journey is sometimes hard. Sometimes not. Mile markers keep time and allow the grace of a reflect. Like breadcrumbs, they led me to a place I did not expect … a place so worth visiting my outlook changed. I am just another woman. I am married to a guy I love all the time and like most of the time. I am a mom and a bonus mom and a Momo. I am some people’s devout friend. I am a landscaper. And I am fascinated by the human experience and its forever impact.

I think we have to ride some waves that seem daunting because the shore at the end of the foam is warm and worth a morning comb. These pages are that—sometimes terrible and sometimes familiar and sometimes amusing as they describe how I got here. Far from unusual, the instinct to flee what we no longer know how to cope with is common to us all. Maybe between these pages you’ll collide with where you last saw you too.