For The Dastard

I just read Dastard's post about life's discontent. He did not leave the comments section up, which I can understand. Sometimes when I post I secretly hope that everyone reads it, but no one says anything. I just wanted Dastard to know that he is not alone in sometimes wanting to miss the exit and keep going. When things get bad, I think of packing only what I can carry, including the kid and the cats, and moving to the Midwest somewhere, where no one knows anything about me. I would work as a waitress in a truck stop where my son could do his homework sitting in a corner booth as truckers pique my imagination with stories of the road. I would be their favorite waitress of every truck stop. I would remember all of their names and ask about their wives and girlfriends and kids, pets and wild happenings. And they wouldn't know anything about me. I would live in a silver Aerostream trailer with pink flamingos in the yard. My son and I would take walks across the flat dusty land and forget we ever lived before. We would live in the moment of grasshoppers and a setting sun as 18-wheelers rumble past. When people would interfere and insinuate themselves in our lives, as people do, we would simply pack up the Aerostream and leave one night with the moonlight as our guide. We would find ourselves somewhere in Montana, where I would cook for the cowboys and even wrangle a few steer myself. I would laugh and joke with them as they told cowboy stories and deftly burn my finger or knock the salt over when they would ask questions about me. I would learn to hunt from a saddle and my son would just learn to ride and rope. Then someone would attempt to tell me what to do or how to live my life and all they would see are the tail lights from the Aerostream as we bump down the dirt road to once again follow the moonlight. Perhaps the coast of Maine would be our next stop. I would trade the Aerostream for a ship. We would eat clam chowder and trap lobsters. Every evening we would practice nautical knots and wash the salt from our skin. We would lay on the boat as it is buffeted by the north wind and see all the stars and learn how to navigate in the fog. Our cheeks would glow from the chapping gale, our hands calloused and rough from working the ropes. One evening we would simply set sail in the moonlight and not return. Eventually we would see the porpoises who play off the coast of the Outer Banks. There we would make port and I would sell the ship and find another Aerostream and finally allow the call of the lush forests of home to beckon us back. What will have changed? Probably nothing, as humans are creatures of habit. We do everyday the same things we did the day before. We awake the same time everyday, we go to work, we come home, we cook, we clean, we make love, we sleep. This routine is called security. Our dependence for order and stability. It is both comforting and irritating. We are happy in it, and loathe it. We feel compelled to grow up and make order from chaos. We feel compelled to remain in relationships and jobs, to deal with our families and still carry that drunk friend home so as to maintain that order. We breathe in oxygen which nourishes our blood which in turn nourishes our bodies, this place where our soul is so graciously allowed to reside. At some point everyday we realize we are hungry and we eat to maintain our strength and our health. How often though we ignore the hunger of our souls. It does not grumble and lower our blood sugar. It does not interrupt our meetings or suddenly hit like the munchies. There are no late night drive-thrus for soul nourishment. We have yoga and Quabbalah classes, we got to church and synagouge, we dance in circles and it all becomes another part of the order in our lives. Our soul's hunger is the deepest hunger. It knaws at us slowly until one day we wake up as Dastard did, wondering what happened to our dreams and this life that we planned. Our order is upset because its not our order anymore. We have begun to walk to the beat of someone else's drummer. Sometimes, we don't hear our own drumbeat anymore. Dastard, you're not alone. I can offer no advice, only empathy. I know I'm the only one who can take control of my life and I'm doing that with baby steps. I extent my hand to you in friendship and wish you "Good Luck."