Washington State passes

The question of where I am in life keeps popping up in my head. It is the result of linear thinking, three dimensional floating in my own waters of delusional aquarium life existence. “Where am I?” “How am I doing?” “What next?”

The sense of not knowing has been hanging in the air like some heavily laden perfume. The smell of repressed depression has lingered in the environment for almost three years.

The journey this summer has caused a sharp break in that sense of constraint. Driving across the states of Washington, Idaho, Montana, Wyoming, Utah and Colorado through the haze of smoke nestled on the horizon was an adventure.

The flat land stretched out for days. One night I was listening to the University of Utah’s jazz program that runs for several hours. Darkness, stars, flat almost deserted highway and beautiful Cab Calloway pieces were surrounding me. The show told me stories about the history of jazz and its great musicians.

Travel is so much a metaphor for life. The assumptions that I make about the next stretch are usually in error. Sitting in the heat inching along in Vancouver, B.C. because there were accidents on all three major egresses is good practice for patience. I put on my favorite CD and sang along. The thoughts peeking out from the back of my mind was, “Oh no. This will go on forever. It will take hours to get out of here. Now I will be late for the entire journey.” But it was a small voice.

My bigger voice was telling me, “You are here.” Period. Who knows what conditions will exist in an hour, in a day, or tomorrow. The mountain pass was challenging with the rapacious, semi-suicidal semi-truck drivers jumping one another, cutting in, passing on impossible curves. I thought about the economic downswing or more accurately the depression and how much these drivers had riding on each trip. Their very desperation was obvious in their driving.

So it is now dark. It is now road construction with the lanes winding in unpredictable loops with the orange toy-like markers directing where to swoop next. How long will this go on? As long as it does.

The sky in the flat states is stunning. Blues so intense that they made my eyes sting. The clouds become the landscape. The clouds become the geography in these planed horizons.

My cell phone was reassuring. I texted both of my children to tell them where I was on the journey. “I am approaching Boise now,” I would indicate to my son and my daughter. The cell phone and the Tom Tom embolded me. I felt supported.

Because I was unused to driving and it is difficult to predict travel time, I stopped only for what I called liquid in or liquid out. I would get gas, use the washroom and replenish my water. My meals due to my financial straits were usually almonds and grapes that I could eat as I drove.

Bathrooms, washrooms, rest stops. Well now that is an entirely different issue. Some places were clean and welcoming. Others I had the urge to go to a local emergency room to have my nethers disinfected by a surgeon. The rule of thumb seemed to be the further away another service station was, the less the proprietor had to do to maintain the facility. Only show in town mentality rules.

I was very excited when I saw the first outcropping. Climbing a hill somewhere (I frequently let tomtom make the decisions and had no clue which state I was crossing) I saw a big of greenish earth and rocks jutting out.

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As I stepped on my 2003 Nissan Sentra’s gas pedal and she jumped into charge mode, I saw a young man with a woman on the back of a motorcycle coming up behind me. She had black hair tied back on her neck and a white peasant off the shoulder blouse. Her feet were barely clothed in minimalist sandles. The sleeves on her blouse whipped around her arms. I smiled and envied her freedom. She rode in the open air, up a pass without protection. (Also, what crossed my mind was the fact that a daughter of a friend had spent her life recovering from a motorcycle accident whereby she had her leg sliced and experienced multiple operations.) Both thoughts rested in my mind at once.

The real sense of accomplishment came when I saw red. Finally, the beautiful red earth of Colorado began to show up in outcroppings along the road. Getting there. I was getting there.

Driving along the highway to Boulder was challenging. I got off the road and got lost early on but found a way to circle back. Tomtom was furiously trying to correct me but I refused to listen. I was a bit frightened and would only double back on tracks I know I had laid down. Too insecure to break off onto a new road, I ignored her voice.

By night fall I was well and truly exhausted. It had been a long day, a long three days and I just wanted to find a place to stay. I got to Boulder with the kindness of stranger. Three different times cars behind me laid on the horn and came close to hitting my rear end. It was dark. I was lost. And the exits were just coming too fast for me to process.

Exiting in Boulder, I drove around in circles. Finally, demoralized I pulled into a parking lot next to Chucky Cheese and laid down in the backseat. I thought to myself just stay here until morning. I had tried two motels and been told that a state wide Baseball tournament had every single hotel/motel in the state filled up. The rooms had been reserved a year ago. I texted both of my kids that they could find me at Chucky Cheese and laid down.

Then the voice started.” You deserve better than this. What are you doing woman?
Just take a few minutes to rest and calm down. The universe supports and cares for you. Trust.”

I locked up the car and went for the first time in my life into a Chucky Cheese at 10 pm at night after an eleven hour day of driving. The noise was blinding. The colors were deafening. But behind the counter was a small, dark haired obviously gay kid who was an angel. He looked up the hotels, called the first one on the list for me and I ended up with a reservation.

My previous rooms had been under $70 a night with a free coffee in the morning. My gluten free cereal was in plastic refrigerator dishes and I added milk or coffee cream to them and ate them in the morning. This time the room was $135 but it was better than being rousted in the night by a security child in a dark uniform.

So I followed the “loosey goosey” directions from the desk clerk. On the street he had indicated, I got out at the first motel and discovered that was not the place. They had a $150 + room still available but not my reservation. I walked over to the next motel. A young, efficient woman at the desk told me ‘everyone’ came there by mistake. What I was seeking was around the bend.

Well, yes!

So on the third try, I scored the motel room and thankfully went to sleep. I was glad I had decided to leave Boulder and go up or down (Lord only knows) to Louisville to find this haven. The next day I headed to the Snow Lion dormitory only to discover that once again life is always fascinating.

The first room assignment I received changed early on. However, I was sent an email calling me Bob Hanson and moving me in with two “other” men. I replied that it was very generous of the dorm to provide me with two men when I had been around no men at all for the last 28 months. Perhaps, I should mention that I wasn’t Bob.

So a third room assignment was emailed to me. I printed out the email and included it in my documents before the journey. When I arrived at Snow Lions in Boulder at noon, I presented the paper.

No, the Resident director informed me. No that isn’t your room. It had been changed yet again and I had to wait until after 3 pm to get into the room because it hadn’t been cleaned. So I filled out the required paperwork and went away.

I walked around Naropa campus, going into rooms, moving in and out of various buildings trying to get a sense of the place. Finally, I ended up sitting upstairs in a large space looking like it was set aside for meditation. I sat quietly for an extended period of time grounding myself, dropping the anxiety from last nights three hours of driving in circles, being lost and releasing frightened thoughts as they came up. I was here now whatever that meant.

I had crossed the mountains, climbed the passes, driven the plains, found motels and gas stations. My body was not sore. I was not feeling depleted. Whatever happened next, happened next. And as I sat in the room with pictures of Buddha, I thanked my spiritual practice for being a home for me, no matter what happened in the outer world, I was safe, protected and fascinated by the journey. Gratitude arose and I sat in it.