I am on a train that is moving through the forest, over hills, against the granite wall holding in the sea. It’s taking me back home. It rocks and glides and motions streamline toward the north. It’s completely romantic. Vagabonds. Punks. Old lady with miniature Doberman pincher. Drunk Australians. Cowboy for Christ. Crying toddlers. Hippy grumps. Hot man with pony and fine literature. Flashing colors of dusk through the window, painting my flesh illuminated. Un-orchestrated energy that I sit within. Romantic.
This should be a requirement for a stay at home mom of 3 kids. A train ride all alone. With spicy city falafel in purse, oil on pulse, crevasse-like cleavage from not nursing in 24 hours throwing innocent bystanders into a locked gaze of amazement. New fancy dreadlocks. Full Scorpio moon lighting the way back to the Other Side.
The flux. In the middle of the constant, as still as I can be. The movement owns this space. I’m either a part of it or an observer, but there is no way I am the navigator. I might hold a compass, but I don’t always choose the turns. I am just a passenger in the container, leg’s crisscrossed within, trees slapping windows outside, glasses clinking two cars down, a man snoring in the distance.
My life is a series of interrupted plans, forced plans, an unexpectedly seamless plans. Lately the voice comes through in my sleep, whispering past the veil: It’s just intuition and intention. move with what already stirs and rolls and charges with life force. Move with it. Do nothing. Really. Nothing. Trust life.
I tried to plan the trip but quickly tripped on that idea. My imagination painted a picture of me and my laptop the whole way down to Portland. Not an interruption. Not a sounds but the WOOWOO of the train crossing. Just my fingers on the keys, finishing up, meeting deadlines, burning through the obstacles and coming through to a finished project. That was how I saw it happening. So I wrote it in my planner that is stained with spilled coffee and six year old letters carefully practiced on every page.
MIA 6 LOVE CAT MAMA MAMA MAMA MIA SLUA SALU SULA DADA PIRIT HPPY APP MIA 6 6 8 111 TTT TV X DOG
But then, the night before I was suppose to get on this exact train going south, she called me. I’ve never met her before but her breath of fire lives on my wrists, holds my money and lipstick and keys. She’s the oldest friend of my Queen B and so it only made sense I would eventually meet her. She was in my town, heading back to her town: Portland. She said to drive with her instead.
The flux. The constant of movement. I sat for a moment in the longing I had for alone time. But in that I also could understand the offer I was being given: life experience to share with another individual, to be spontaneous and own the adventure in any way it’s presented. Until the moment the decision had to be made, I was led, a cord of something else, something easy and light. It was real to not be attached. I think the true state of the human is to be unattached, to live fully through the pineal gland with the brain only as back-up. And so in the moment I jumped in the vintage land cruiser with a bag of nacho chips.
Along the way there were indulgences of smoked pork tacos, Mexican spiced mochas, modeling Betty Page Dresses in 6 inch heels and connecting with gorgeous souls. Stories spewed like volcanic ash, stories of first sex and first heartbreak, of first births and of death. I laughed so hard I peed. It was Women Uncensored. It was getting lost on the dark roads of southern Washington. It was finding our way.
I grasp tightly, like a newborn’s hand in their first hours of life. The flux for me is that point before paradox, before change happens when I’m just there, not reaching or retracting, not thinking or wanting, but fully being still on the spot, resting indefinitely. It’s the quiescence before birth. I live grabbing for rewinds or fast forwards, passing my power out like a dealer at a blackjack table. This cycle I made a quiet intention: Just Watch. To sit on my hands. And my brain. And my mouth. Listen. Wait. To NOT process at all. To allow.
The results are magnificent. The flux is my friend.
She sat with me and loved me down like an ancient partner with her hands and her golden wand, molding and forming and growing with exactly who I am and what I had to offer. Never a second of force or even contemplation. Nothing calculated or examined. Her hands etched with tribal runes reached inside my mane, grabbing a hold went for the ride. My energy came through my hair to her. She watched, saw it emerged, blessed it’s happening. Romantic. Fantastically. If only everyone approached each other this way: Soul level connections. Life becomes easy.
An old and loved friend held me through my appointment, and in the end looked at me and said, “this is the hair you’ve wanted for thirteen years.”
And I thought about that. I never made the decision until now. Age 36. I watched a lot of things. People coming and going. Babies born. Houses filled and emptied. Cars shiny and filthy. Bank accounts positive and negative. Love lives and fizzles. Rain pours on my house while the sun shines bright on the strip of island out my front window. My daughter tries to kick me in the middle of a tantrum as a tear falls down her rosey cheek. I bicker about dirty laundry and muddy floors while my heart pours requests for unconditional love. I write away as time moves around me like a mid-western cyclone, no way to track or gage the year that just grew from beneath these words. I step away from where I am suppose to be and go where I my feet move into stillness.
I’m not sure what this post is about. But I don’t care. My hair rocks. I am drunk with Moon Shine and feel the need to reach out, to say anything at all that comes from my heart. This is what it is, what I am right now and only right now. I’d like to share more so come over to my house and I can pour you a glass over ice and we can sit on the porch in the paint chipped chairs and watch the sky turn robin egg to fuchsia while the girls dig in the garden and we can talk it out. Looking in eyes, slow spring evenings, salsa, barefeet, Lily Allen and love is where I am right now.
Court the flux. Enjoy it like a lover’s skin along the banks of the Thames River.