February 2022
Winter: this one so cold, dark, eternal. Outside the window, a moon encased in ice vapor, cradled in the forest’s naked embrace. A languid ascent from the realm of dreams. A gentle command: release to receive. Be open to that which you never considered.
In my waking hours, a door swings wide open. A hand of steel emerges. Your initiative and competence have not gone unnoticed, a metallic voice intones. My head spins, and the instinct is to recoil. You deserve more. I hesitate, weighing the options. I could remain in the outer reaches of the hive, lulled by repetition and blissfully invisible. But maybe it’s time to step out of the shadows. If I don’t try, I will always wonder. I take a deep breath, clasp the hand, and step through the door.
It is an initiation into a strange territory of numbers, markets, strategies. Degrees and titles. Egos and intrigue. Obedience to the system.
Welcome to The Machine. Cold tentacles burrow deep into my spirit. Iron grip on my heart. Turn and churn, little cog. Everyone has a function here. Everyone is necessary. The mask is uncomfortable at first, but you’ll get used to it. Throat constricted, thoughts awry. I gasp for breath. A constant knot in my solar plexus. This must be the stress I’ve heard so much about.
But look at this brand new car. New clothes. This will make it all better. Until the next shiny thing beckons.
Spring. Into the kingdom of green I flee. The Machine cannot follow me here. Hiking alone in the wilderness is a powerful form of surrender. The reemergence is always hopeful, no matter how despondent the entrance. I traipse, enveloped in the comforting weariness left behind after a battle.
The birdsong, the breeze, the play of shadow and sunlight on the forest floor. Tiny cobwebs are illuminated under a divine spotlight. Somewhere along the path, I become just another creature. The consciousness that encompasses it all, that wants so much to communicate with us, begins to speak. A tremor of fear. How deep do I want to go? Will I be able to come back? Will I want to?
A portal looms before me, leading deeper. I hesitate on the threshold. What’s the point of venturing further, if no one else is? This is why I’m alive, why we’re all alive. I step away with a sigh. It’s already difficult to relate to most others. And, for now, I must try.
The Machine is voracious. At the end of the work day, I extract myself from its maw, mangled and gutted. A bleary-eyed drive home. The flip of a switch. A hum resonates through my cells. Autopilot’s empty comfort takes hold.
I grasp onto the dwindling spark of inspiration. Will I ever write anything of beauty again? Will I ever travel again? Am I destined to finish my existence in servitude to an organization? It is an odd combination of gratitude and bewilderment and certainty. This is where I’m supposed to be, but why? Where is the path leading me? How did I get myself so lost again, in this wilderness of consumption and conformity? This is not me.
Wisdom arrives from longtime reader Alison: “This opportunity has been presented to you. Apparently, it is you, at least for now, anyway. Let go of the writing, for now, and revel in your ability to take on something quite monumental...you’ll find your way back.”
I lie awake at night and think about all of the ways I can mess it up. So much responsibility. So much to learn. That other voice re-emerges. The one that guided me to accept this challenge.
Yes, but whatever will you do if everything turns out just fine. Or worse: wonderful. All your life you’ve been in survival mode. It’s time to live in abundance.
I wander through my cabin, more finished than unfinished now, and gaze at my treasures. Reminders of my unconventional definition of success. A flask of flame-colored sand from the Namib Desert, the shell necklace from the host of the guesthouse I stayed at on Easter Island, the boar tooth necklace from Papua New Guinea. The photos of the distant lands I’ve visited and inhabited. The beautiful books created from my blogs. My writing.
My writing.
My words are now utilized to document meetings and edit correspondence. Always mindful of regulation and litigation. Every word will be scrutinized by The Machine’s most loyal and ruthless minions. Not much opportunity for flamboyance, but I do manage to sneak in some irony. A wicked giggle to myself.
Summer.
MondayTuesdayWednesdayThursdayThankGod. Thank God. For what? That I just wished five days of my life away? Again.
Saturday and Sunday. I blaze down the trail. The long one that traverses so much of the northeastern United States. Such a weekend warrior I am. Just look at me go.
Through swamps and clearcut forests and meadows. Along this river and over these grueling hills. Get it done, girl. Even this trail is merely a section of a goal I set last year. The Machine has indeed followed me here. There is no place to hide.
A burst of color appears by the side of the trail. In a place so random and unremarkable, a message: Hope.
Just stop.
Listen to the river.
Mother, brothers and me gather together in a birthday float for my stepfather. Dark clouds converge. Thunder in the distance. White-knuckled grip on the paddle, I fight off the current. Muttering under my breath. Stop expecting the flow to hurt you. I breathe deep and loosen my grip. Log jams loom ahead, one after the other. I let the kayak slam into them, then guide myself back into the flow. Rapids and sharp curves carry me along. If I tip, it is part of the adventure. The perpetual knot in my chest vanishes. I lean back and smile. I can do this.
My brothers, both seasoned kayakers, float behind me. Grant sits straight and tall, regal and impassive, gripping his single oar like weapon. Billy leans back in his seat, casting anxious glaces at the sky. Farther behind us, my mother and stepfather share a tandem kayak. The warm mist thickens and hovers over the river.
“We are moving into spooky territory,” Billy whispers with a smile as he drifts past me. Massive red cedars hang low over the river, their grip on the earth slipping away.
Be in The Machine, but not of it. Let it teach you what you need to learn. One day you will be free again.
Autumn. On the Les Cheneaux islands, antique wooden Cris Crafts are gently plucked from Lake Huron and ferried to shelter. Caretakers clean and shutter the Edwardian cottages for the impending winter. Jim Le Voyageur and I, La Vagabonde, explore overgrown trails on the island.
The memory of our long walk from Ile Behuard back to my place in Angers arises. The flow of the Loire by our side. Jim had already returned to America. I had just made the surprise decision to do the same. It was a huge risk, ending my 19-year marriage and attempting to re-enter the American work force at age fifty, after almost two decades overseas. I had to believe that everything would be okay, if I did the right thing. I came back with two suitcases. Now I live in a little cabin. I organized and participated in its creation. My first job when I returned was bartending in a dive, and now I’m the executive assistant to a bank president. And the people who entered my life at first: superficial, flaky, dishonest, selfish. They have drifted away. True friendships are beginning to form. It has indeed turned out so beautifully.
I keep these thoughts to myself as we tramp through the brush.
But Jim pauses and turns to me. “You’ve done very well for yourself. You should be proud.”
I nod to myself. Maybe I have succeeded after all. In this place that will always be so foreign.
Jim’s husband Alex joins us for late afternoon kayaking. His attachment to The Machine has become more elastic over the past year. Gardening is his new passion. They blaze ahead, into the weedy passage that slices through the island. I bob up and down in the waves churned up by fishing boats. No ambition to keep up. By the time I clear the weeds, they are on their way back. Alex glides by. “Even my recreation is goal-oriented,” he declares. We exchange a smile.
The days and weeks and months blur together. One more rotation around the sun is done. It is winter again. Snow spills into my boots as I plod through the deep drifts at the river’s edge. It’s been five years since my return to the United States. If I live long enough, I will surely look back on these years as the most transformative period in my life. A fundamental rearrangement. It will take time to settle into this fresh incarnation.
The Machine has given me the opportunity to understand what I’m capable of. Little by little, its iron grip loosens. Life begins to glow once again.
