Countryside drive

 With an early winter chill hanging in the air, I watched the scenery flash by in a series of brilliant autumn colors and blinding streaks of sunlight. The afternoon sun lingered as it set, slowly sinking behind the hills which I had somehow found myself within. 

 I was driving home from tax school, headed west through hills which seemed more appropriate to the New York countryside that I left nearly two years ago. As the sun played peek-a-boo through the trees, I spotted a gas station which sat surrounded by farmland. The oddity of it sparked the ongoing thought that had been repeating lazily in the back of my mind - have to get gas or end up coasting home on fumes today. 

 After quickly purging my car of the donut box riding shotgun with me, I waited for the pump to slowly fill my tank. Motion from the farmhouse across the highway caught my eye. A older farmer tilted across the farmyard, his joints stubbornly abbreviating his range of motion. Swing, tilt, swing, tilt, swing, tilt. I gazed at his sheer determination, wondering what task took him away from his comfortable chair inside the farmhouse. 

 The white dog following at his heels, and the red farm truck parked inside the barn made me think that it was time for some evening errands. Then I looked at the dog more closely. The tail wagged  in a short, stumpy, erect manner that wasn't a dog's wag at all. It was a goat. The goat was joined by a trail of lumbering cows and weaving cats. (The cats obviously well accustomed to walking amongst shuffling hooves and switching tails.) I shook my head as memories of my father leading a parade of animals through daily herd checks flashed through my mind. Was the farmer preparing for the evening milking? Did he have afternoon hay and straw to distribute? 

 As the gas tank neared full capacity, I jiggled the handle until my "lucky" number slipped into place. Looking up one more time as the printer slowly produced it's record of my purchase, I saw the farmer oddly bobbing up and down in his new position across the highway. Seeming to fight something that was just out of sight amongst the milling bodies around him. The movement suddenly became recognizable. He was running a hose into a cement water trough. Pulling on the hose and coiling it into the trough so the force of the water didn't shoot the hose back out of the trough. 

 As I reluctantly prepared to slip into the car and drive away,  I let my perception expand and take in all of the hillside scene. The sheep cropping the short grass and the cows entering the shadows of the alleyway. Standing on the hillside, placidly watching the scene unfolding below her, stood a solitary cow. Her swollen belly hanging low and wide. Her coat shining in the impeccable way of a Jersey cow who is near her calving date. Her smooth coat proof of the care and husbandry that her farmer is still honored to give. 

What do you want to be when you grow up?

I have always despised that question. Jealous of the kids who had a canned answer just waiting to be brought out. The future firefighters and nurses and cops.

I never wanted to be a "something". I wanted to love fiercely, to be indescribably cherished, to experience all the unknowns in life with faith, hope and loved ones at my side. I yearned for a set path that told me how. There is no career guide for love, or for living a full life. We are told that to be happy, we need to have a plan.

I am forced to enter, for the second time in my life, "unemployed" as my occupation. This time around it's tempting to enter "housewife" as my answer. Housewife is an acceptable role in society. That word means it is a conscious choice to be in the situation that I am in, rather than something which is forced upon me and in which I fail to change.

I don't want to miss the sunrises. The off-hour drives on the interstate across a landscape which is undeniably my soul's home. I want to experience the seasons. The bitter cold of winter outside my window as I type sitting in a cozy spot with a mug of coffee at hand. The harsh changes spring brings as the air warms but the earth struggles to release it's cold, frozen grip on the soil. I want to nurture small sprouts of spinach, peas and carrots as they seek the weak light of early spring. Tiny seeds that hold the secret promise of warm afternoons spent harvesting and tending the garden's voluptuous needs and rewards before the chill of fall trumpets winter's steady advance. Planning not for the week's meals, but the next season, the next year, the next decade of nourishment and life.

Packing my things every day to go to work for someone else's benefit is too slow yet too fast. The years creep by and when I come up for air, I'm suddenly much older without life's goals showing much progress. Yet it seems there is another major event always looming on the horizon. Or, at the opposite end, nothing to do but to plod along until the next thing hits. Life is spent doing what's expected instead of living as my core screams it needs to do.

If I could go back and talk to the young me, I'd tell her that it's ok to simply "be". Be confident. Be patient. Be loving and kind. Be fierce. Be steady. Be spastic. Be scared and courageous at the same moment. Be leery of those who are new, until they prove that when you fall with them, you can fall without restraint.

Being unemployed is an odd gig for me. I am a worker bee. I like to put my head down and work hard within set boundaries. To have a problem and know that it could be fixed. Or to know that some things just are and that's how it is. Without a boss man nor a company schedule to keep, I have to learn to do those things for myself. What are my long-term goals? What are the immediate needs of myself and my household? Do I need to say "no" when it seems that I should say yes? I have to learn to let go and trust my household. To communicate and prioritize things that were previously ignored. I have to learn to listen to the old me, and the new me. What is unchanging and what, in the end, doesn't have to be? What little things matter to ensure that the big dreams come true? When I frame my window, is it looking out where I want to go?

Until I learn all of life's answers, I'll relish the knowledge that going in circles is my happy place. The seasons and the scenarios change, but the underlying landscape is the same. Skate fast, turn left, and skate like a jammer until body and soul are one once again.