Travelogue 27, Glen Rose, Texas: Self-Induced Life Douche

I sit cross-legged in front of a bunch of kids, the bhaaa-ing kind. They are recently separated from their mommies and are emotionally needy. Me too. A page wire electric fence separates them from my caresses and me from their noses conducting a full body search for clues of food. I don’t take it personally, their interest in me  being devoid of sentiment, despite my delicate emotional state. So often our interest in others is just as primal, only we mask it as sincere concern.

Their number equals that of my assigned herds while teaching in DISD, around 30. Their serenade reminds me of a game of Marco Polo. One of them bellows out in the back right corner. Another answers on the front row, then a cry comes from the  middle of the crowd.
I feel a bit like an important politician (if there is such a thing) in a press conference. I point to the one with the lopsided ears, “Yes, what’s your question?”
“Bhaaaaaa…”
“Well, I don’t know…,” I respond, wiggling my numb legs to jumpstart the circulation.  “Yes, you with the crooked horn.”
“Bhaaaa…”
“I’m not really sure. I wish I could tell you… You, with your tail sticking straight up.”
“Bhaaaa…”
“Oh, sorry, didn’t realize you were….I thought you had a question. Yes, you with the obnoxiously high-pitched squall.
“Bhhaaaaaaaa…….”
“Hmmmm……Can’t say as I really know….”
They start to riot at my ignorance in a clamoring of bhhaaa’s that makes me feel like shit. I have no answers. They have every right to be upset with me. They appointed me as the wise one with dominion over the lot and I don’t know jack about anything…their problems or mine. The ruckus they are raising gets so loud I get up to leave, downtrodden. When I turn around, I see a young woman with a chop bucket swinging from her hand coming toward us.
There’s a smacker of a lesson. It's not about me. They are looking over my shoulder in anticipation of dinner. You see, that’s what happens when we look for evidence to support our assumptions. It’s easy to blame the holder of the mirror for what’s making us feel bad. Satisfied with that explanation, because it supports our misery, we have no need to explore other, possibly innocuous reasons outside of what’s in front of our noses. It’s a silly little story, but reminded me of some wisdom I had let slip from my awareness.
I’m in a reflective mood, and thus, in this edition of the travelogues, I invite you to share my ponderings on the journey thus far.
In May of 2010 when I declined my contract renewal with DISD, I initiated what I refer to as a self-induced life douche.  In the fall of that year these travelogues morphed from anecdotes of summer vacation travels abroad into updates on my quest for purpose and fulfillment. My new job description: Wake up every day exclaiming, “Wow! I am excited to be alive and know I am fulfilling my highest purpose while helping others.”
With the exception of a few months, I’ve been collecting unemployment checks from the Universe for two years now.
To recap, here’s the recipe for the cleansing solution I have used to flush out the vaginal cavity of my life:

1. Dumped the job that drained more energy than it gave me. Bye-bye to an eleven year career with Dallas Independent School District that provided retirement, health insurance, job security and an adequate salary to support my lifestyle. In other words, I had achieved the life of security my parents and society defines as success in exchange for my soul.
2. Heeded the call to live abroad and do what I am good at. So, I went Spain to write; I didn’t do much of it, fell in love and brought back a woman instead of a book.
3. For the first time, chose a relationship over work. I got a job as a tour guide in South America, lost the job as a tour guide in South America, took the risk of my lifetime and followed love back to Spain.
4. Pursued my other passion as a possible career. I got my tour directors certification from the International Tour Management Institute in San Francisco. As a start, took a job in a hostel in Uruguay making $2.50 hr.
5. Put my all into making a relationship work. I sold everything I owned, rented my house, went back to Spain to keep the love stoked and plan our life together.
6. Honored my soul’s yearning to live and work in South America. I worked at the hostel and slept in a tent, nestled in a bush 100 yards from the beach. I quit the job at the hostel and started my own business in tourism and language instruction. For two months I experienced the happiest existence I have ever known.
7. Survived a break up. The flame couldn’t jump the Atlantic. The relationship petered out and I moved through a fear of abandonment that has kept me a bachelorette for most of my life.
8. Faced family shit.  Pop got really sick, I came home, forty-two years of family dysfunction came to a head and I walked away with my dignity and a great sense of freedom. Pop got better and I went back to the happiest I have ever been in my little fishing village in Uruguay.
9. Faced round two of family shit. Pop died, I returned to the States, the family united long enough for the dirt to settle on his grave and the promise to never return to discord was broken.

10. Listened to my biological needs. I HATE cold weather. Summer in the U.S. is winter in   Uruguay. I decided to linger in my homeland until it gets hot down south again. This lingering has provided many blessings.
11. Haven’t given up on a lifelong dream. I prayed for a quiet, inspiring place in Nature to read my diaries and write the book that has begged birthing since I was a teenager.

31 years worth of diaries

As I write, I reside at a ranch called High Hope, 2 hours from Dallas, where I have arranged a work/stay.

I weed the gardens, water the trees and clear hiking trails in exchange for living in a cool as shit vacation rental ranch home. Aside from the copperhead under the porch, I couldn’t ask for nicer accommodations.

"Habari"

So how’s the writing coming?
It ain’t happening.
I am bhaaaaa with an “L” stuck between the “b” and “h.”  I feel irreparably uninspired, directionless, unfulfilled and hobo-ish. Why? I got exactly what I asked for and then some. Here I sit on a back porch overlooking prairie and pond watching the dear and ducks play. Where never is heard a discouraging word and I listen to moos in the breeze all day.

On the porch

So, what the hell is the hold up?
Would a new pair of underwear do it?—bring me back to life, that is. I asked myself that question while bathing with a holey pair of my panties this afternoon. It’s become the custom that we share the tub now that I’m down to five pair. If I get slack and miss a few days, next thing you know, I’m going commando, which isn’t my most private part’s preference.
It’s not that I don’t have the money for a new set of Hanes-Her-Way. It’s my attachment to suffering. I could get new everything. I will have to soon as the few things that remain in the wake of the douche is wearing out fast. My soul said “upheave!” and I did so. I’ve done 1-10 on the list, but it hasn’t been enough. 11- infinity won’t be enough either. It won’t matter where I go, what I own or don’t, who I’m with or not…I wouldn’t know what to do with persistent happiness if it climbed up on my lap like a kid scaling Santa to reach his ear.
I’m always glad for happiness to visit, but it doesn’t take long until it wears out its welcome and I start hinting that it’s time to get along little doggies.  I mean, let’s get down to it, REALLY….what explanation is there for me to not feel a deep contentment? The reason du’jour is loneliness. If I just had someone to share this with...  Instead of writing, I fantasize about someone to make dinner with, someone to share a soak in the tub with, someone to sit here in a comfortable silence on this porch with, someone to put their arms around me while I sleep. I’ve had all that at times before….and craved this that I have at this moment…solitude.  It’s not that I am in the absence of company. It’s that all I have is my own company in the absence of distraction from the state of mild suffering I recently admitted permeates my psyche like a morning fog.
Back on the porch, the light of day fades, the family of white tails has come out to graze and a prelude to the frogs’ symphony settles us all in. I will sit here with this, my attachment to suffering, with three candles and a howling coyote, without resistance, until I can walk through darkness as calmly as Pop taught me to walk a trout stream, so as not to spook the fish.
Then, I simply must do something about a very practical dilemma! I left all grooming utensils in Dallas, so my hair is a wild, matted mess. I’m scaring the kids. Maybe that’s the real reason they are doing all that bhaaa-ing. I suppose I could go over to the horse barn and borrow the colt’s curry comb. The other option is more convenient, the toilet bowl brush, but I just had my hair highlighted and I'm not ready to go back to brunette yet.
Would love to hear from you!
As always, with much love and many thanks for taking the time to read and being a part of my life, G