Paths

Sunday, June 12, 2016 at Blackfoot Reservoir Campground in Soda Springs, Idaho

I found myself alone this evening, briefly, enjoying a beautiful view of the reservoir and surrounding hills from our campsite. It was calm, peaceful, tranquil. James and Wesley were playing in the kiddie sandbox down the road, safe and happy, and I reveled in the stillness and the beauty. I drank it in, savoring it. I witnessed clouds floating on the water’s surface as the sky melted from bright orange into pink, then lavender, and finally gray. Ducks moved effortlessly, almost indiscernibly across the water-mirror—an example for the rest of us. And I heard the familiar signs of young children in a campsite behind me: incessant jabbering, a squealing baby, and a mother yelling. I could sense her frustration; I know it well. She was tired and overwhelmed. She was struggling. Amidst choice words and intelligible yelling, I made out her desperate confession: “I can’t do EVERYTHING all the FRICKIN’ TIME!”

She’s right, you know. Truer words have never been spoken. I have been this mother…I’d venture to say that we all have at some point even if just for a second. I become this mother when I go on autopilot, when I’m not really present. I’m not really in the moment because I can’t be. I’m trying to meet the demands of my child and myself and whoever else is around and of life in general and of various global crises and frankly, whatever else I’ve made up in my own mind. In short, shit’s gotta get done and it ain’t gettin’ done on its own.

And I can’t say that’s not legit. But I do know that shit will get done. One way or another. It may get done with me kicking and screaming and struggling and suffering all the way. Or it may get done later than I wanted or in a different way than I wanted. Sometimes it doesn’t get done at all and I realize it wasn’t actually necessary. Whatever was meant to be done, seems to gets done. It can look really ugly—like a lot of what’s behind me. Or it can be really beautiful—like what’s in front of me right now.

Tomorrow morning, I’ll find myself trying to decide how I want to live my life once this RV trip ends. Where will I live? How? With who? Although I try not to dwell on it, every now and then the unknowns crop up and want to make themselves known. Hello uncertainty. Hello fear; I know you’re hiding there. I guess I can only acknowledge you and carry on. Whatever will happen, will happen. Que sera sera. And all the rest of that kind of talk.

It helps to remember what my therapist asked when I faced a previous life decision: “What would The Buddha do if he were deciding which path to choose?”

“He would choose a path,” she answered.