Ode to a Squeaky Canal Pump

(Alt. title: The Very Certainly Pathetic Revenge of a Passive-Aggressive, Rhyming Insomniac)

Oh ye, canal, what lies below,
And pump, what lies therein;
Must you howl as though repaying
Me for some grand sin?

Did my dogs e'er leave a mark too crude?
Did my poultry tribe offend?
Did I wrong you in another life?
Will your wailing never end?

My window sits above, you know,
This ruckus echoes there.
It keeps me up! It truly sucks!
I'm pulling out my hair!

Nanny said be patient,
And mother said be kind.
But goodly thoughts are hard to keep
When going from one's mind.

I don't believe I ask too much
To spend my nights in peace.
I understand your work is tough,
But, canal pump, let me be!

For scream tomorrow in that ditch
- I'll teach you how to fly.
You've heard it said that life's a bi$@#,
But, canal pump, so am I!

*Update: The squeaky pump has been fixed! Blessed sleep! Thank you, kindly canal runner!*

Coming Home

"Roads go ever ever on,
Under cloud and under star.
Yet feet that wandering have gone
Turn at last to home afar."
                                ~ J. R. R. Tolkein

Schmaltzy? Maybe a bit. But if schmaltzy bothers you, you might want to take this opportunity to avert your eyes, close the tab, and forget you ever clicked on that link mysteriously favorited by Taye Diggs.*

This is a travel post. Ergo, according to the rules of the internet, it's riddled with schmaltz.

Consider yourself warned.

So we went out. We saw the world. And now we've returned home to familiar fences, a welcoming driveway, and a passel of wet and wiggling noses.

I'm not sure what to say about it all. It's a strange feeling, coming back to find the walls aren't nearly as close as they once seemed. For someone who's made it her business in life to avoid the world at large, being forced to face it day in and out, to acknowledge its splendor without turning away, to shake hands with woodworkers and make eye contact with sailors... it challenges your perspective.

Badass gunner, binding sails on The Hawaiian Chieftain.

To me, the world has always seemed a cruel place; a labyrinth of missteps, harsh stares, and sharp edges. I don't take chances because losing seems the most likely outcome. I don't go out on a limb because the ground is twenty feet below and I don't take in nearly enough calcium to survive the fall unscathed. But travel is powerful enough to show even me that boldness has a kinder side, too.

A side with banana slugs, redwood giants, and replica ships. A side that introduces you to badass gunners and warmhearted veterans working to give purpose to soldiers and underprivileged kids. A side that leaves you wandering the Nye Beach book district, where a retired astrologer reads your fortune and a sweet German shopkeeper insists that you "Take the Ishiguro" in exchange for your autographed work.

A side that makes you smile and feel a part of something that matters.

People need to go out on a limb for reasons great and small. To feel the sun. To stretch and lean and see things from every angle. To find the rare fruits and spy the silkiest threads.

Just as walking new paths leaves sand in your shoes, braving new adventures leaves sunlight in your soul. Will it last? Probably not.

But, as with bathing, there's a reason we repeat the process every so often, now isn't there?



“At the end of the day, it isn’t where I came from. Maybe home is somewhere I’m going and never have been before.” ~ Warsan Shire


*Totally never happened.

Immersion Therapy: (HWY) 101

Anyone who is a little bit broken can tell you that phobias have a way of bolstering themselves. Something scary crops up in your day and rather than confronting whatever it is, you kick up your feet like a frightened cottontail and bolt for the nearest briar patch. Once there, your jerkface brain REWARDS you with a big ole dose of feel-better fuzzies for having run away. Trigger. Run. Reward. Trigger. Run. Reward. Over and over until you’ve programmed yourself to feel that flight is always the better option, even when every rational ounce of you knows that it isn’t.

Take travel, for instance. Most wouldn’t consider travel as something to fear, but I’ve hippity-hopped from it nonetheless. Every year we plan a vacation – and every year I find a lame, totally invented, perfectly valid reason why we shouldn’t take it. 

 “Gosh, winter’s a terrible time for travel, isn’t it? Can’t we wait until summer?”

“But look at all these baby chicks I just brought home! You don’t want to leave them here alone, do you? Of course you don’t – because they would die and you’re not a heartless monster.”

“Vacationing in the heat of the summer, are you mad?”

My husband is either sweet enough or fond enough of chickens that these (not to belabor the point) perfectly valid reasons sway him more often than not, and our idea of venturing into the world at large is tabled for another year.

Reward.

Only… every rational ounce of me knows that it isn’t.

It’s gone on long enough that the excuses are no longer necessary. We still go through the motions, but we both know that the AvPD itinerary of NEVER GOING ANYWHERE EVER is going to win out in the end. And the longer this continues, the harder it is to fight. 

Year by year, my world shrinks. From a town… to a house… to a handful of rooms in which I feel safe. This poses a problem. You know, beyond the miserable isolation part. I couldn’t stop writing if I tried and, as you’ve probably heard it said, you can’t write about a world you’ve never experienced. 

Long story short…

I’m writing this from a hotel room on the coast. 

It’s been a hard few days on the road (Highway 101, to be specific) but my darling husband and his ever-faithful GSD are here too, having both given more than their fair share of emotional support through panic attacks, motion sickness, and at least one attempt (not intentional) to get us so thoroughly lost that we couldn’t continue. We’ve argued and I’ve hyperventilated. We’ve been sunburned, waylaid, and invaded by ants after an unlucky roadside bathroom break. 

We’ve also found sea glass and played cat and mouse with the waves. 

The world is full of experiences, it turns out. Some of them change you for the better, make you stronger. Some of them send you crabwalking away from an anthill mid-stream, swatting at your extremities like they’re on fire WHICH OF COURSE THEY ARE BECAUSE THEY’RE BEING BITTEN BY A BILLION ANTS. 

But you know what? 

It gave me something to write about, didn’t it? 

And I’m hoping that this will widen the boundaries of my briar patch. A little more hopeful than I was yesterday, in fact. Probably more an indication of delirium than of mental and emotional growth, huh?

Maybe it’s all this salty sea air.

Fortune Reads: Time heals all wounds. Keep your chin up.