Friday, November 8, 2013

What Happens Next

Two years on the road. Two years of packing and unpacking. Two years of goodbye hugs and getting-to-know-you conversations. Two years of starting over, and starting over, and starting over again.

Odometer reads: 259801.

So, in mid-September, I take a break: a rest from my sabbatical, a hiatus from my vacation. Maybe that sounds a little weird; I've long since lost track of what "normal" feels like. That might be an unstated purpose for this downtime: to reclaim a little bit of normalcy... if there's any normalcy to be found in sleeping on the basement floors of various friends and family members for a month and a half. Like I said, I don't even know anymore. I do know that after all of this travel, there is tremendous comfort in stopping, spreading out, settling in; in the places and people you know best; in sorting through a year's worth of snailmail, sitting around playing computer games in your PJs in the afternoon, allowing yourself to internet until you're sick of it (note: for some of us this takes a loooong time).

I guess what I'm saying is that it's really, really good be home... even if I'm not staying.

Two weeks in my hometown, four weeks in the town I call home (Portland). The time is largely uneventful, and that feels good: quality time with loved ones, reacquaintance with old haunts. But one event does occur that rocks my world pretty hard.


It isn't a big accident, really just on the more impressive end of fender-bender, but my insurance company asserts that my 1990 Volvo is totaled. Totaled? How can that be? This car that took me zigzagging across the continent and back, that didn't miss a beat after I rammed it into a West Virginia hillside, that kept me warm and dry and safe in deep snow and summer monsoons, totaled? My home and most loyal friend for the past two years, totaled? You don't just deem your friends totaled and walk away from them. Besides, it still runs just fine, aside from the part where the wheel grinds on the body, and the gas cap door doesn't open anymore....

A body shop provides an explanation: the rear quarter panel of a Volvo 240 is not easily removed. A replacement would have to be welded on, a time-consuming and finicky task. Apparently the insurance company's repair estimate of $3000 is actually pretty accurate.

Rats.

On the bright side, after some tinkering with a 2x4, a crowbar, and a steel baseball bat (I love my auto shop!), the tire doesn't rub on the bashed-in panel anymore. "The damage is entirely cosmetic," points out one mechanic. "It's still a good car."


On the other hand, paying $3000 to repair the damage seems a little indulgent even for me, and as my dad points out, now would be a good time to replace it. I waffle, sulk, and pick through Craigslist ads, feeling naive and impatient. I test drive another Volvo 240; it's shiny, but it smells strongly of college-aged bachelor, and my mechanics shake their heads when they discuss the oil leak and the DIY wiring under the hood. "If you're going to replace your car, wait until you find something worth replacing it with," they tell me.

So October runs out, and with it, my time in Portland, where I have easy access to trusted and generous mechanics. I load everything back into the car and head north. The trunk seems less watertight than it used to be, but to be honest, it never really sealed well to begin with. I've packed accordingly. It works out.

* * *

After brief visits to old friends on the I-5 corridor, I hang a left from Seattle and get on a ferry to the Olympic Peninsula. My friend Willa lives there, outside of Port Orchard. She is four years old now, and she has a lot to tell me about. Her little sister is running around and forming complete sentences, and there's a brother I've never met before, who's crawling and growling and joyfully flinging food around at meals. It's all very exciting.

Willa's parents have invited me to come stay at their house until the end of the year while I write. I get a big second-floor room with a desk and a view of the woods. There's a baby gate at the bottom of the stairs, guaranteeing me some space from the smaller members of the household. And this far outside of any urban area, there's very little else to distract me (especially when the internet goes out).

 

So now I've eliminated every excuse not to write about what I learned during two years of visiting intentional communities. It's time to relive that journey -- the hellos and goodbyes and everything inbetween -- in order to make it vivid for others. I hope the resulting book is something I'll be proud to share with you.

15 comments:

  1. Welcome home. It has to be weird staying put, like when you step off a boat after a long time out sailing.

    Sorry about your car. I'm so glad you're still able to drive it while finding a new one. That had to be scary.

    Good luck writing. Sounds very peaceful and chaotic there all at once.

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    1. Thanks, Nicole! I love your "staying put" metaphor -- may even quote it in a later post. And yes, this place is definitely a yin/yang blend of peace and chaos! By the way, I've been admiring the chameleon stamp and paint-chip postcards on your blog. So cool! :)

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  2. 259801. - such a great (non)random number. a numeric representation of story. do you know how much of that milage is from the journey the book will cover? - that number could maybe be a chapter title or something.

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    1. Alas, it never even occurred to me to write down the odometer reading when I left home. I plan to calculate approximate mileage using Google Maps, one of these days.

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  3. I have longed to visit intentional communities, it hasn't been possible so far. I look forward to your book to live vicariously through you.

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    1. Thanks, Lois! I hope to self-publish next year. I'll be reporting on my progress here. By the way, nice blog template! ;)

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  4. I am glad to know you have such a lovely place to gather your thoughts and words, Lindsey. Your book is greatly anticipated.

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  6. Lindsey, I've been following your blog since we worked together at the Grunewald Guild two summers ago (so long!). I am honestly thrilled to read your book. I think of you from time to time, always with admiration of your exploration of community and with a hope that we might cross paths again. I hope your writing time goes well.

    - Amanda Erickson

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    1. Amanda, so good to hear from you! I'll be at the Guild in January and February -- any chance you'll make it over the mountains? Love your gorgeous doorway photography project!

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  7. Lindsey! You should visit Holden again. Also: If you have any interest in driving to Portland with me the weekend after Thanksgiving to visit Cecilia let me know.

    This is not in the spirit of sitting still...I just would love to see you again.

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    1. Aw. I would love to visit Holden again, but I can't get any writing done in that place. There's too much fun stuff going on all the time! I don't know how you do it.

      I'll be passing thru Portland Thanksgiving weekend. Alas, I can't justify another trip down I-5 one week later -- I gotta get this book done. Thanks so much for the invite, though! And if you could possibly send me Cecilia's contact info, or give her mine, I would be deeply appreciative; the phone number I have for her is defunct, and I can't find an e-mail address.

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  8. If you're going to replace your car, wait until you find something worth replacing it with.” – I couldn’t agree with this more. Like other important things in life, we shouldn’t rush into buying a new car, replacing for this matter. Make sure you’d be investing on an upgrade, especially that your Volvo was said to still be a good car.

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    1. Thanks Maggie! Keep on spammin' the classy way. ;)

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