misplaced mama

Uncle Tupelo sings to us while we stare in awe at the greenness, the lushness, the seafulness, the absoluteness of this land…

 Early in the morning, sometimes late at night
Sometimes I get the feeling that everything’s alright
Early in the evening, sometimes in the day
Sometimes I get the feeling everything’s okay
Because everything cuts against the tide
When you’re by my side

 Such simple lyrics to such a simple and beautiful song.  A song that was part of the soundtrack to another transition in my life; twenty-two and between lovers, exploring myself and my body and my spirit,  and leaving NY for the great and wonderous West, when I came to discover myself and it’s love for nature.  And now this song strums inside our truck with my family by my side; it’s just how I feel in this world that can pound so hard against my head and my back and my bones.  Worry about my children adjusting to such newness and how this move might turn out divine or perhaps totally disasterous is alive and real inside me.  But there are those moments, like these, when I am surrounded with love and safety: everything’s alright.  With this scene right now, there is nothing ever that can really be wrong.

How’s that for vision?  Whale spotting while driving 55.

 He pulls the truck over looking pleased with his hawk eyes and we jump and watch four whales play in the bay.  We stand hundreds of feet above on an Ireland-esque cliff and watch water spray from spouts as they travel about, weaving in and out of massive sea dwelling boulders.  I never thought I could be more in awe of the coastline than I was in central and northern California, but I am.  The coast of Oregon is golden while at the same time being a silvery essence of mist.

Whales and bald eagles within 5 minutes of each other? Unbelievable.

We pull over again.  We watch as two grown bald eagles soar above us, playing in the crystal clear air stream.  They are majestic and serious; yet their flight through the air stream is whimsical and playful.  They own this sky.  We watch them, their wing span massive and their presence demanding our undivided attention.  Sula is smitten.  Her favorite bird is Bald Eagle (thanks to Little Einstein).  She can’t stop smiling. Bald Eagle came out to say, Welcome to Oregon Sula!  She sits back in her car seat and tries to draw bald eagles on her little magnetic sketch pad.  Mia does the same, except she pens orca whales. They are content for over an hour, drawing this magical creature of earth.  Eagle teaches us to fly great heights, to find the courage to see far beyond our limitations.  And whale is the record keeper of ancient knowledge and if we listen carefully we may be able to hear the wise ones from Sirius share the secrets in a whisper or a song.

The sky has been clear for days.  The sun warm and bright.  Not a cloud or a drop of rain.  I am being welcomed in a different way to the Northwest.

I see a sign that says Cranberries and Local Marionberry Jam. We’ll be pulling over again.  I am not sure we will ever get out of Oregon.

Fear.

Today fear hit me like a two by four in the skull.

It’s not real, it’s not something I have ever even seen or experienced.  It’s a fear of a thought.

Some people freak out by spiders or are scared to fly in airplanes.  Some people can’t step foot on a bridge.  Some people stop breathing just with the mention of snakes.

My fear is of Tsunami.

Every night that I am by the ocean I am plagued with it.

Whatever possessed me to travel and sleep along the line of the coast, each night lying down at the start of the sea I’ll never know.  Or to choose to live in a city right on the bay which is along the Cascadian Fault line…not sure where my head was with that one. 

Since entering Oregon there have been signs for Tsunami Evacuation Routes every few miles.  Each campsite is sprinkled with quite a few of these signs with arrows towards the high lands.  There is a universal little graphic of a person running from three waves, each one in a row progressively getting bigger.

I am awake each night very sure that a massive wave will come and steal me and my family, the Sea Herself taking us all back to it’s dark deep source.  I have had tsunami dreams or over 7 years now; in each I am running from them, I am riding them, even one where I was part of one.  The best one happened New Years Eve 2001 while I slept at the Southeastern coast of Florida.  It was Technicolor, a definite Oliver Stone production dream, where the tsunami had a voice and a face, not far off from a super hero that resembled the laughing Buddha and cackled at me while I ran towards massive bright blue mountains, not knowing if I reached the top, waking short of breath before any conclusion was made.  Each time I dream of these massive wave attacks, I have had a small baby in my arms, or in my consciousness, hard to tell in the dream.

I sit up wide eyed in the camper wondering what kind of system Oregon has to let us know if one is coming, if they can at all.  Air horns? Alarms?  Helicopters blaring down warnings to us?  I read a sign at the beach to never turn your back on the water, as “sneaker” waves were known to come at a moments notice.  And after there is an earthquake out at sea, the tsunami can start her cleansing magic within minutes of the fault shifting.  I read these warnings at each beach we played at.

Okay, I need to have a plan.  So, if a tsunami comes, what’s the plan?  Do we try to drive out or do we walk?  What if we are in different places?  Where do we meet?  Since they waves progressively get bigger, we need to get away fast.  Okay?  What’s the plan? I chatter nervously to B.  He looks at me in disbelief.  It really pisses me off.

The chances are ridiculous, M.  I mean, really, it’s almost comical that you think a tsunami is going to hit. It really is totally irrational.  He smiles at me and shakes his head and tries to hug me, humor me, comfort me.  I growl at him.  Every morning I am exhausted from tsunami induced insomnia.  Every morning I tell him I was awake with invasive thoughts or tormented by tsunami dreams.

You have a better chance of becoming pregnant.  I am pregnant, I tell him.  Exactly. He smiles, let it go.  I growl again.