Flames roared out of the bat mobile by the time we barreled into the hidden driveway that leads to our secret hideout in western Michigan. Bursting at the seams with a week’s worth of vacation rations and two raucous teenagers, we couldn’t get out of the car and onto the beach fast enough. As the boys raced inside for dibs on the choice sleeping quarters, I breathed in the fresh sea air and patted myself on the back for making it. I have been running on fumes lately, my fuel light on “low” for some time. I was dangerously close to empty and pinning my hopes on the magical, restorative powers of the lake to bewitch, filling me up again.
I don’t know about you, but I want vacation to be a true hiatus, a peaceful place to dock and suspend any activities that constitute the daily grind. I rid myself of all but the completely necessary chores which, on this particular vacation, leaves us with little else than activities centered on consuming food and drink. I ignore what I can’t eliminate, like my e-mail, simply choosing not to read it. A bight is allowed in the rope I extend to the boys, and I welcome the gift of influence from other quality adults in the clan that these close quarters afford us.
With time devoted solely to the pursuit of pleasure, I should have easily refueled and reset my compass. Yet, as the week wore on, I found myself more lost in some ways than I was at home. Our vehicle was packed to the gills on the way up north, how had my self-doubt and self-pity found space to stow away and intrude on the ride?
I wasn’t sleeping well at night. The knot that has been loosely tied around my right shoulder suddenly laced itself up tighter than a corset. My oldest offered more evidence that you can run, but you can’t hide. Even the most secluded and sheltered lair can be capacious when it comes to trouble.
And then it rained. Everything was wet, it seemed. Pieces of clothing that had never touched the water were cleaved with a determined dampness. While I had been reading at the beach daily, this bewildering change in direction caused me to pour myself into my books, and it was here that I untangled my rope and found the peace I was seeking.
The aspiring writers in the two stories I read couldn’t be more different. Shay Youngblood’s Eden in “Black Girl in Paris” is 26 years old, wandering the city in 1986 in pursuit of her idol, James Baldwin, believing he will supply her with inspiration and words of wisdom she thinks she needs to launch her own career. In “Joy in the Morning”, Betty Smith’s Annie is an 18-year old uneducated newlywed who, in 1928, tries to fit the mold of wife and mother but can’t deny her calling as a budding playwright. The theme that runs through both books is the same: These women find the power within themselves when they write, filling themselves up with the outlet of creative expression.
Friday dawned sunny and gorgeous, making it easy to forget the rain. I pulled on my running clothes and put one bare foot in front of the other along four miles of coast, the waves lapping at my toes as sweet purls ceaselessly gave way to clear pools of water. Feeling human again, I traded the shorts and shirt for a bathing suit, and grabbed my books. I read for 3-1/2 hours before I saw another soul from our tribe. During that time Annie discovered her best work came when she wrote from the heart about people who matter to her, and her husband Carl found the security he needed to support her interests with the knowledge that Annie couldn’t give up her writing any more than she could give up him. Eden, in her writing, found a gift belonging solely to her, and realized she didn’t need anyone to show her the way, that everything she needed had been inside waiting for her.
The whole week I had been thinking I needed someone else to fill me up, and feeling sorry for myself because he doesn’t exist right now in the form of a kind, dependable and attentive man made just for me. I had forgotten my own power, once again.
All of the pieces came together when I dove into Deborah Harkness’ “A Discovery of Witches”. Diana, a scholar researching rare manuscripts, meets Matthew. They find themselves attracted to each other, in spite of the fact that witches and vampires just don’t mix. Matthew’s friend Hamish is slowly extracting the story of Diana during a chess match which Matthew loses when he leaves his king vulnerable to attack. His pawns, a knight and a rook were all occupied protecting his queen. Matthew’s explanation for the loss is more telling to Hamish than anything he says directly about Diana: Sometimes guarding the queen’s freedom is more important than winning the game.
We are fully capable of filling ourselves up, even when our vessels feel bone dry. This is never the responsibility of someone else. But that doesn’t mean we’re alone. The generous friends in my tribe were my unwitting protectors. They kept an eye on my children and allowed me the luxury of an entire, guilt-free day, yes, nearly eight hours, in my favorite spot on earth. When everyone else packed up, there was no pressure to follow, instead, the offer of another drink to savor all by myself, as the sun inched closer to the water on the horizon.
Like the queen, my power lies in the autonomy to move around my chess board at will. And with this cue that I have boundless choices, I refilled my trove with patience to let the game of life continue to play out. I don’t need to rush. Some days I may see several moves ahead, and be swift and decisive. Other days I may not see what is right in front of me, or need to wait for a move to be made by another, unveiling new options to contemplate.
It is inside each one of us. No one can take it away.
With the freedom to go in any direction, and her merit so clearly visible that a slew of allies gird her like no other, no wonder the queen is the most valuable and powerful piece on the board. ♕
No comments:
Post a Comment