Big Legacies in a Small Town

There's a haiku at the end.

...Wait for it....

Everyone has weeks of heartsick exhaustion. I suspect. This past week seemed as good as any to have one myself- I've had a head cold, I'd been traveling a lot, and I did not get what I wanted. The future looms all abyssal just in time for my 29th birthday. Also, didn't have time to stock the fridge, so feeding myself has been a bit spotty (those failed no-bake cookies? Hello, breakfast, lunch and dinner!). I get cranky when I'm hungry. It's one of my many endearing traits.

So. That said.

I have had to ponder life without the island.

I have managed to survive life without theater; life without boyfriends A,B, and C; life after the house in Little Deer Isle. This would just be another heartbreak. What is there to fear in that? I literally laugh in the face of heartbreak (at least while people are looking). My disappointments in life have generally been so minor, and the rewards so major- this one would not be inconsolable.

While I am hopeful that something might work out- that I will find some way to remain tethered here, to remain at home here- I am preparing for the possibility of emigration. Which means I am looking at my work in a new light- I am considering how I need to have all the ends tied up, so that I can leave cleanly, having created some sort of sustainable order. If I leave, I want to leave having fulfilled my obligations, and having done so relatively well, so that should people think of me, they will think of me relatively well. Yes, let's get on with the legacy building, shall we?

This is what I have been stewing on (beyond the obvious scheming to make ends meet after August) this afternoon. Have been having a hell of a time finding photos of myself "with other people" for the Institute's Island Journal. I only take pictures of myself when I am alone- when in company, I am the photographer. What photos my friends have are probably not at all appropriate for the Island Journal. So this left photos at the school. There are approximately six pictures of me (or really, with me in them- there is a difference), spanning the year and a half I have worked there. As we scrolled through events, and I continually didn't show up, there was the refrain- "oh, but you weren't there were you?" More often than not, my response was "yes, actually, I was."

Well, I wanted to do the seeing, so should I lament not being seen?

I walked home to my own journal after the staff meeting- I've spent six years with this particular journal (I juggle them), nearly to the day- and it is almost ready to be retired. As the evening moved on, and the sun began to sink ever lower, I decided to run an errand- something to give me a tangible reason to get out of the house, to wander at magic hour. I gathered up my Netflix; I penned a quick "thank you" note; and then it was out onto the deserted street, in the hour of the deer. I didn't see a human soul, walking when the sane world sees to supper. This April day has been blustery and cold, but filled with light- it could be March, it could be November. I would wish it to be part of an unending autumn, not a presaging of summer. I don't want the pace here to pick up, I don't want my contract to end.

At the Post Office, I slipped my mail into the outgoing slot, and wandered to the store, to belatedly erase my name from the UPS whiteboard, then headed up the familiar walkway to the church. I thought I should probably clarify a few things with the universe. Communication is important, so I've read.

Having set things straight, it was on down the tree-canopied lane (now rutted with wash-outs), and out onto the open expanse of the field- startling the inevitable deer, tails pink in the thickening light. Unafraid of mud season, I exited toward the road by the power station, such as it is, and came to a piece of public art, such as it is. A large rock, it is impaled all over with small propellers at wild angles, backed by a very large propeller. Many of us scratched our heads last year, as one island resident labored away at this project. It was to be a memorial to his best friend, a man who had basically founded the power company. I didn't think much about it- being a newcomer it didn't make a whole lot of sense, sticking a bunch of propellers into a rock. It was of course, the Dark who enlightened me (ha ha ha), as it was his father skewering the boulder:

"It's all about the pain in the ass of trying to move forward when all these little minds are working against you in all different directions"

I paraphrase, but that was the gist. Yep. Gaining consensus is a pain in the ass when you know you're absolutely right. Like much public art, this had faded to the background for me. It wasn't something I'd thought much about or looked at since. But today- drawing out the walk, pensive about what feeble legacy I would be leaving (tape a pinwheel to the stone for me!)- I realized that this man had gone ahead and stuck propellers into a glacial erratic.

As in, it will probably take another ice age to move it anywhere. Regardless of propellers and righteousness, minds small and large.

And at that, I laugh-
Rock joking with me at night.
Nearby, deer scatter.

.

The Journey is Sublime

I'd only been back from Iowa about 36 hours when I had to turn around and leave the island again to chaperone a field trip to Portland/Westbrook. Given that the chaperone/student ratio was 4:6, I figured I could duck it, but in the end, I just bowed to my advisor's expectation and got on the damned boat.

The morning of the departure, I was attempting to fix no-bake cookies I had ruined as an offering for library hours (can I just not not bake?), responding as cheerfully as I could to the news I did not get the award, and finishing quarterly reports. In the light of all the work that needed to get done before I could step out of doors and head to the landing for the 8 a.m. boat, I was glad I hadn't really bothered to unpack from Iowa. I would just throw a couple of things in, and hey presto! I would be on my way.

Yeah. Don't do that.

Oh, I had underwear. Socks, even. Just no pajamas. Also, not so much with a coordinating outfit to wear to a matinee kids opera. On the up side, I got to drive an Expedition. Now I hate gas-guzzling ridiculously large SUVs as much as the next person. Normally I would glare at the driver of such a vehicle, and judge them silently for their compulsive consumption of the earth and her resources. I would laugh at their attempts to park in Portland. But, I am also a little woman with Little Woman Complex.

I suddenly like big vehicles, when I get to drive them.

So, aside from the cries and yelps from the back seat, where three of my younger students were engaged in the never-ending arguement that begins with the scream "so-and-so touched me!", I was in a pretty blissful place. Occasionally a song would come on and they would all sing together like seraphim:

"What's going on the floor, I love this record baby,
but I can't see straight any more
Keep it cool, what's the name of this club...
I don't remember, but it's alright, alright... just dance..."

or alternatively

"No one knows what it's like...
to be the bad man...
to be the sad man..."

And it was about the time on the way back home, when the arguing stopped on a dime, so they could all chime in on Behind Blue Eyes, that I knew there was a point to my going on this trip. It wasn't a big point, and epiphany or anything. It was just that I got to have the sublime experience of singing The Who while driving a stupidly large vehicle on I-95 with a clutch of little boys piping up from the backseat. And this song was not from my generation or theirs.

Classic.

All at Sea

Important enough to be lodged at Grinnell House:

My impressive yet limited run as a VIP.

I seldom got the lead role; the cute guy just wasn't that into me; I'm not the girl who wins the door prize. This is good training for life. I did not get the Wall Award- but the journey was worth it, and I am smart enough (well-schooled enough in classic Rolling Stones) to appreciate that. I didn't get what I want. Now I just need to figure out what I need.

And I am at a loss.

I am good at diving into things, immersing myself in a project, a lifestyle. What I am not good at is divining a clear and steady path that would lead to a career (and the living wage the word generally implies). Ever a gypsy, a dilettante. This gets tiresome, cause I am kind of a homey type: content to putter, to marry my high school sweetheart (Downeast Maine, for those who were wondering). Of course I would fall in love with a place where there is next to no economic opportunity.

Since the fall I have been determined to stay on the island- with the possibility of the award ahead of me, this seemed reasonable. I fell into the assumption that somehow I would make it work. The award would come through (sun's gotta shine on a dog's ass someday, right?), and I would have a year coming into my own- building, creating, making progress. That I would be around to help orient a new fellow if we get one; to enjoy the sweet serenity of autumn; to direct my third Christmas show. I would stay a part of the fabric of the island- lending a hand into perpetuity. The end of my fellowship would not bring the stress, terror and heartbreak of actually leaving the island.

God, it was a good dream. And I am glad I got to dream it. I am glad I worked as hard as I did, and thankful got as far as I did.

But I only want to stay if I can be useful. As self-sufficient as is reasonably possible.

Please, please, please, let me find an open window. I am nimble at scampering through them, it's just a matter of locating one. And here I guess, we are coming to a certain test of faith and commitment. Welcome to 29, kiddo.

Lent, Part Two: Lead Me Not into Isolation

Life's full of little gifts, right? I am in the Cincinnati airport, a three hour serving of limbo in my travels. I took a nap, feet up on my suitcase, head dropped back against a pillar, contacts drying in my eyes. Woke up with the expected cricks and cramps, then dragged my belongings to a burrito place, and leisurely ate a wrap while enraptured by Neil Gaiman reading The Graveyard Book. I finished my food, and then began to roam for the perfect mode of gustatory closure.

And I wanted ice cream. Oh, I wanted ice cream. I would have even considered soft serve. Screw Lent, right? I do not practice Christianity in any methodical way, and we all know that to some extent, I practice Lent as a lark. I had every right to break the superficial vow- and it is Sunday too, so I could even just consider it a righteous exemption. Who cares if I eat a frozen dessert, really?

I made up my mind.

And then I saw key lime pie on a menu- staring at me like an old friend, telling me "Morgan, cut the bullshit- you need to follow through. I am here for you."

So I went into the Wolfgang Puck Cafe of the Cincinnati airport to take comfort in key lime pie and coffee. And was seated at a table in the middle of the space, crammed in next to other tables. At the two-top next to mine sat an upper-middle class black man in his sixties. On the seat across from him was a tube, for blue prints, maps or the like, and the safari/fedora hybrid style hat that certain men like to sport (I really don't know what those "certain men" have in common besides the hat, but it always makes me think "professor!"). Because of the spacing of the tables, it seemed like we were sitting with one another, across from one another. I ordered coffee and my pie, and looked forward to getting back to the glorious voice of Mr. Gaiman. The man politely asked if I minded his making a phone call. I was about to iPod up like the rest of the electronic world, so I told him I didn't mind in the least. Eventually my pie came, but the waitress first delivered it to him, not me- we all had a pleasant laugh, and then- seeing the ever-enticing key lime, he decided to order some for himself.

And then we were having dessert together. Since I'd sat down, I felt that our sharing the space like civilized people was inevitable. He is worried about his son, his only child, who he had such dreams for- that his son would have passion, ambition- a fire in his belly. That perhaps his son, a junior, would follow him into his business. Or make good on the promise of his golf swing. But his son didn't like school, the man cut the purse strings after junior year of college, the son's grades no longer meriting the money.

He says his son is charming, smart, that he is well-liked and loved. The man was just returning home to Philadelphia after the death of his last remaining sibling- and his son had been very helpful with the obituary and arrangements. But he wants his son to get a steady job, or to finish school: he is bothered by the way his son, 27, operates- deciding to turn in a job application tomorrow, rather than first thing today. And he recognizes he can't make his adult child mind him. To do things the way he would (the way he had to).

The man himself, financially secure, no longer responsible for the day-to-day welfare of his child, and divorced for a decade, enjoys a life where he has the freedom to do as he likes, and he is pleased with that. He considers that his life has been a good one, and is all too aware that he's come to a point where he has to worry about injury, and illness- that he is no longer a young man.

I often wonder to what extent children carry the wishes of their parents on their shoulders- this weight of dreams and expectations, it obviously varies from parent to parent, child to child. This man said wistfully that he'd always wished he'd had a daughter too- that he could see her now, finishing high school or in college- a girl with a head on her shoulders, getting things "right." It was, he feared, true, that men just don't mature the same way women do, that is it a slower ripening. A daughter myself (one who tries to get things "right" but has never had/kept a sensible job, but has had many a good job), I smiled. And quietly hoped he'd and his son would negotiate a peace with one another. Twenty-seven is still young.

And so we talked along these lines, slowly chewing over pie and life- quiet and content in Cincinnati. I hope he has a good journey.