The Great Urge... in the Words of Steinbeck

"When I was very young and the urge to be someplace else was on me, I was assured by mature people that maturity would cure this itch. When years described me as mature, the remedy prescribed was middle age. In middle age I was assured that greater age would calm my fever and now that I am fifty-eight perhaps senility will do the job. Nothing has worked. Four hoarse blasts of a ship's whistle still raise the hair on my neck and set my feet to tapping. The sound of a jet, an engine warming up, even the clopping of shod hooves on pavement brings on the ancient shudder, the dry mouth and vacant eye, the hot palms and the churn of stomach high up under the rib cage. In other words, I don't improve; in further words, once a bum always a bum. I fear the disease is incurable. I set this matter down not to instruct others but to inform myself.

"When the virus of restlessness begins to take possession of a wayward man, and the road away from Here seems broad and straight and sweet, the victim must first find himself a good and sufficient reason for going. This to the practical bum is not difficult. He has a built-in garden of reasons to choose from. Next he must plan his trip in time and space, choose a direction and a destination. And last he must implement the journey. How to go, what to take, how long to stay. This art of the process is invariable and immortal. I set it down only so that newcomers to bumdom, like teen-agers in new-hatched sin, will not think they invented it.

"Once a journey is designed, equipped, and put in process; a new factor enters and takes over. A trip, a safari, an exploration, is an entity, different from all other journeys. It has a personality, temperament, individuality, uniqueness. A journey is a person in itself; no two are alike. And all plans, safeguards, policing, and coercion are fruitless. We find after years of struggle that we do not take a trip; a trip takes us. Tour masters, schedules, reservations, brass-bound and inevitable, dash themselves to wreckage on the personality of the trip. Only when this is recognzied can the blown-in-the-glass bum relax and go along with it. Only then do the frustrations fall away. In this a journey is like a marriage. The certain way to be wrong is to think you control it. I feel better now, having said this, although only those who have experienced it will understand it."


Interestingly, La Framéricaine mentioned "Travels with Charley" in her thoughtful comment on my last post. I own the book and read it a couple of years ago. Her comment inspired me to pull it off the bookshelf and reread it. When I picked the book up, a receipt fell out of the book. I bought the book exactly 2 years ago to that day... June 1st! A flood of memories besieged me. I bought it at the OSU bookstore before I headed to Baltimore to drive cross country with my sister. What a great road trip that was and how it inspired me to make that first great trip to Paris just a few months after! Sometimes I like to leave receipts, photos, leaves, or notes in the pages of books as I read them. They definitely prove to be lovely memories that always surprise me much later. Ah, memories. How powerful and inspiring. I mean, there the book has been sitting for quite some time and certainly I did not forget that I had read and enjoyed it. But it was that receipt that triggered so much awareness!

This great urge to journey is as much a part of me as my brown eyes and eager smile. It doesn't diminish, it never goes away. I so feel the itch Steinbeck so wonderfully describes in this opening passage of "Travels with Charley." The heavy sound of a train in the distance, its destination unknown but its journey certain. The exciting feeling I always get when I go to the airport, even when I am not the one traveling. Driving down an unknown road, great music playing... the rush of feeling that the open road brings. It haunts me, it pleads with me, it sees right through those substitute experiences I try to appease it with.

I give in. I yield. I soar.

But... I Have Built-In Bookshelves!

A few days after my enlightened decision to become homeless, to let go of my apartment and roam Paris and the States for an undetermined amount of time, pragmatism reared its timid head. I was getting ready to go to bed. I sat on my bed and looked at my built-in bookshelves on the opposite wall. Wow. I've really given up my apartment. July 27th I will be officially homeless. But I like living here for the most part, neighbor proximity and noise aside. My studio is in a great neighborhood and I love the layout, including these built-in bookshelves which I have neatly and thoughtfully arranged my books on. I love laying here in my bed, looking at my books.

This initial and premature nostalgia for my built-in bookshelves gave way to further precipitate wistfulness, with the momentum of a downhill train. I have granite countertops in my kitchen, for God's sake! Granite! Isn't my kitchen one of the first things people comment upon when they see my apartment? How they marvel over the relatively ample size (given that it is a studio), the granite and the stainless steel appliances?! Am I not told repeatedly how fortunate I am to have such amenities in an apartment? I have a lovely window next to my dining table and a a rear door! How lovely to have a window in the kitchen, AND a rear door!

And the closet?! Haven't I always wanted such a closet? It reminds me a bit of Carrie's closet on "Sex and the City," but a bit smaller and with far less exciting contents. But it is a walk-through closet, leading to the the charming little bathroom with full sized tub and hexagon tiles! The bathroom where I've had such wonderful "revelations" standing before the adorable pedestal sink! How could I possibly consent to leave all of this?! And to leave it for what? No security, no comfort to return to after a long day, no place to watch my wonderful flat screen LCD HDTV? Really, I'm choosing such? Freely?!

This sudden and rather immense ruefulness did not last long, fortunately. I found myself laughing out loud at the absurdity of such feelings. These are things after all! Would I really relinquish my dreams of traveling, exploring, living... for built-in bookshelves?! And they aren't even real wood! They are particle board with adjustable shelves and not even really built into the wall. They house a hideaway bed that I don't even use (after all, how then would I be able to gaze at my books if I'm laying behind them?). Do I really think that I will never have another "home" that could have such things? Ridiculous.

And I've been here before. When I was married, my husband and I had an amazing house built, a house with the most charming little den for me to write in. This den had French doors, real built-in wood bookshelves and plush Berber carpet. Did those built-ins bring me any lasting happiness? Clearly not. And they did absolutely nothing to save our marriage, either.

This return to sanity was further verified at 130am, a few hours after the wistfulness over the built-ins, when my new neighbor sharing the very wall of the built-ins cranked her stereo on at an alarming volume. It was a Monday. I awoke abruptly and with what easily could have been perceived by another (if only there were another present) as a somewhat psychotic smile spreading on my face, I muttered out loud, "I am going to move." Although this disturbance was precisely that, it felt like a wonderful indication that I was doing the right thing and I was actually glad for it. I reached over to my bedside and grabbed Nietzsche's "Thus Spoke Zarathustra" and threw it across to the opposite wall. It seemed the appropriate thing to do. To really substantiate my decision to choose homelessness over built-in bookshelves, the next "morning" at exactly the same time, 130am, the music returned. This time I pounded against the wall with the thick binding edge of my not-so "Concise French Dictionary." The point was made and the music ceased. My conviction about homelessness strengthened.

What an insular notion... to cling to my little apartment interior and these things. I've always loved cozy little spaces and I've enjoyed my present home. I appreciate the comfort and fulfillment of a home with four walls and prominent traces of our presence in nearby books, framed photos, treasures and trinkets. But this will only be one of many homes for me. And I smile so widely when I think of the real bookshelves I might build in my own house one day. A quaint house on enough land so as to provide room for a Labrador or two to roam comfortably and without having to hear my neighbors having sex or repeatedly fighting and making up. I'm not beyond appreciating the need for home. I know I will yearn for a home while on the road. But interestingly, I just feel an intense desire to know that longing for home. I think that pain of being "homeless" makes the experience of traveling all the more gratifying. Home really is where the heart is and that can be anywhere. I need to know this feeling more deeply.

My current "backyard" is a landscaped alleyway facing another row of brick condo apartments like mine. The woman who lives directly behind me comes out to chat every now and then. She is in her 40s, single with 2 cats and heavy with regret. Her voice betrays her sadness for a life not fully lived. She talks of the two new armchairs she recently bought, how the cats have each staked out their respective chairs, and how she must work extra to pay for the chairs. She sighs and takes a sip from the can of diet Pepsi she holds. She tells me repeatedly how lucky I am to be able to go to Paris. How she wishes she could do something like that. I find it painfully difficult to talk with her at all because I know that if I cling to these built-in bookshelves, I might hold that same sad tone one day, right here in this very apartment with the granite countertops.

So, I trade my current "backyard" and these ordinary built-in bookshelves for a vast backyard, glorious, and for now.... wonderfully unknown:


*Photo, aptly titled, "Foggy Road Less Traveled," from here.

Divine Discontent

The storm of my discontent finally broke. It was an unusually warm morning here in Portland last Saturday. I awoke at 630am, immediately showered and waited for my sister to arrive. A highly atypical outing for us, we were driving up to Vancouver to see Johnathan and Andy Hillstrand, co-captains of the F/V Time Bandit, featured on Discovery Channel's "Deadliest Catch." As my earlier post about "Deadliest Catch" details, I love this show to a peculiar degree. I find that I could endlessly write about what draws me towards the show: the Hero's Journey, the authenticity of these men and their intense connection with nature, the sea and how it is the one thing I both fear and revere the most, my immense attraction to various aspects of masculinity, memories of the boyfriend who turned me onto the show, and so much more.

When I stumbled upon news that the Hillstrands would be doing a book signing in Vancouver, I knew I had to go, especially after posting about my love of the show earlier this month. So, I enlisted my sister N to join me, who I turned onto the show a few months ago and who has become an equally avid fan since. We fervently discuss who our favorite captains and deckhands are and why we feel such an intense connection with the show. So, the book signing was a no-brainer for us.

We arrived early and purchased our books and stood in line outside, where the Hillstrands would be signing books under an awning. It was a very casual setting, at the Clark County Skills Center. There was a teenage punk/alternative band playing, a dunk tank, a handful of classic cars being featured, and booths set up with information on the Center and its educational offerings. We stood in the unusually hot 10am sun, looking through the photos in the Hillstrands' book, Time Bandit, and eagerly agreed to indulge in hot dogs afterwards.

There was something instantly magical about this day but I had no clear notion when I awoke that this would be the morning of absolute enlightenment... that all my dreams, my hopes of being alive and realizing myself as a writer... would be illuminated, revealing the most lucid direction I am to take with my life. I had no idea that all the symbols, internal and external struggles, and seemingly unrelated experiences and thoughts, would come to such fruition.

*****************************************************************************

The discontent had been mounting, to a deafening degree. I've stood at my crossroads and with a disturbing amount of patience, I have waited. There was no wind about me. No stirring. Just the density of my restlessness. Motionless. Soundless. Absolutely still. I strained my soul repeatedly, trying to glean some indication of which direction I should take. Come on soul, you should know. Nothing. The exigency within me did not subside. I knew I had to go. But where? Could I really be satisfied with randomly choosing just one direction? And while each direction looked equally appealing (and vague), my ridiculously indecisive nature would not allow me to step toward any one of them. So, I waited some more.

My mind started turning against me. Why am I discontent? Why can't I be adventurous and inspired where I am now? I'm going to Paris for the month of July, after all. I'll come home and the writing will be here and more will reveal itself. Maybe I'm just so close to realizing that dream that I'm feeling antsy. No. That isn't it and false attempts to convince myself never work. Travel specials on PBS kept taunting me. I was equally fascinated with each and every one of them. The two hour special on the Adirondacks captivated me wholly, as did the Equitrekking episodes in Vermont and then the South and then Wyoming. That damn Rick Steves and his back doors to Europe! My head was spinning.

I felt the same spinning sensation in reading all of your amazing blogs on moving to France. My horse dream haunted me and I was literally feeling twitchy. The wise voice of Joseph Campbell lingered, like a small bird swinging on its perch in a birdcage with no bottom. This bird (Campbell) repeatedly whispering, you can't have the Hero's Journey in your own backyard, you fool. I highly doubt Campbell would call me a fool but I like a bird with a little provocation. I need it.

The cloud cover of discontent started pressing down upon me more rapidly. It became oppressive. My mind tried to present substitute fantasies - I would hear John Mayer on my iPod and fantasize about us falling in puppy dog love, him writing a song about me and serenading me on the porch of our remote countryside home. After seeing "Lars and the Real Girl" and loving it, I watched "The Notebook" five times in one very hormonal weekend and fantasized that Ryan Gosling and I might meet in a little coffee shop down in the South, trading playful glances. I know... you just threw up in your mouth, didn't you? Me too. Yep, I know this pattern all too well... trying to convince myself that falling in love will quench my yearnings. It is a substitute fantasy that my mind always veers to when I'm discontent. But I know better, in my heart at least. Kind of backwards, isn't it? My heart knowing better than my head. Well, it does. It is an escapist fantasy - the idea of a relationship being enough to sustain me. And that substitute fantasy never lasts, nor do the substitute relationships.

This immense discontent has lasted over two months. No doubt it has resided within me for quite some time (a lifetime?) but it has become unbearable in the past two months. Previous bouts of discontent throughout my life have encouraged me to make changes, but the changes were always a band-aid, a temporary "fix" to keep me going a little while longer. These band-aids never required much from me, maybe a slight leap of faith here and there but no ultimate vulnerability. I tell myself that I cannot keep doing this temporary fix bullshit. I know myself better than ever now at age 31. There is a price to that consciousness. And when you heed that consciousness diligently, as I have for many years now, it never lets up on you until you actually live the life you are supposed to.

The past two months in particular have truly been introspective hell, standing in the middle of my crossroads and reaching the exasperated point in which I yearned for, and then tried with great force, to conjure up a massive train (let's call it the Fucking Choo-Choo to Bliss Express) to barrel me down in this damned crossroads. I felt like I was hoarsely screaming to the universe, "here I am! Is all this consciousness for naught?! I don't want to end up spending my life in this bell jar, suffocating myself with thoughts and dreams unrealized!"

Apparently, the universe listens. The train came, the bell jar lifted. But the train was no train. It was a butterfly, a blackbird, vertical shadows dancing upon me on a bridge. Yes, it was on the Columbia River Interstate Bridge that it all lifted, the divine discontent finally gave way completely, and my soul expanded over the river... it expanded over the largest river flowing into the Pacific from North America. The symbolism only presented itself later. I was in the moment and I've never felt more alive.

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Last night I sat at the kitchen table in my apartment and looked at the bottle of Jack Daniels before me. Just enough left in there for one decent drink. As I poured the remainder of the Jack into my glass, a smile broke across my face. I realized that when I bought this fifth of Jack, I was really at the edge of falling into that deep discontent. This drink would undoubtedly taste different than the first drink off the bottle.

I looked out the window and a light rain was starting to fall. The weather changed drastically since last weekend, when we had temperatures well exceeding 90 degrees Fahrenheit. It was in the 50s now. The contrast mirrors my own weather change. I opened the window a crack to soak in the comforting sound of rain and a train sounded in the distance. My smile deepened.

The enlightenment of Saturday was put into solid motion yesterday. I've secured approval from my amazing boss and I submitted my 30 day notice on my apartment. There is no false ambiguity, no forced motion, no restlessness. Not anymore.

I dream of the sea constantly these days.

I know where I'm headed.

I know I'm a writer.

This is my Hero's Journey.


...to be continued.....

Deadliest Catch: A Hero's Journey

I so love the Discovery Channel's series,"Deadliest Catch." Somehow, these edgy, chain-smoking, ballsy, cursin' crab fishing captains and deckhands have won a place in my heart. It all started when a boyfriend turned me onto the show over a year and a half ago. We'd sit there together in his living room and I'd watch in awe as the Bering Sea all but swallows these fishing boats and men day in and day out. My boyfriend would call out "Sig!" when his favorite captain came on screen and explain during commercials the different type of crab they fished: king crab and Opilio. I was instantly hooked. Still am.

O Captain, My Captain! Today, I know "my" captains, their names and their ships, their family heritage of crab fishing and their strengths and vices as captains. Sig Hansen, Phil Harris (picture left), and Johnathan Hillstrand are my favorites and apparently many others, as these three captains are the only three that have been consistently featured in every season. Their boats respectively being the Northwestern, the Cornelia Marie, and the Time Bandit. I watch these captains with absolute respect as they command the Sea, charismatically surly but with a soft spot revealed in their boyish humor and celebratory behavior upon striking "gold." This lifestyle seems to be a calling that they could not avoid and so, they commit to the challenges and dangers because it is a passion coursing through their veins and family heritage.

As rough around the edges as they seem, these captains know their stuff and get it done. You don't just head out into the Bering Sea and cruise around. This is no three hour tour! Not only must they know how to navigate, use complex technological equipment, deal with weather, manage a crew, assess and repair boat maintenance/damages, manage the deck operations, etc. But it seems that these captains possess a sacred and awe-worthy intuition about where to crab and oh, are they superstitious! Bad juju is taken very seriously!

What goes on down on the deck effectively illustrates why this is the deadliest job in the world. Highly orchestrated and highly dangerous, swells bouncing the boat up and down like a rubber duck... deckhands throw, pull, lift, empty, fill, shift, and maneuver steel cages (pots), ropes, hooks, bridles, pulleys, and a myriad of other equipment. A foot caught in a rope going overboard with a pot is an ever-present danger and one can only imagine the tremendous difficulty of keeping your footing on a boat out on the Bering Sea. Watching greenhorns struggle, some eagerly rising to the challenge and others collapsing completely, puts additional perspective on how taxing this job is. Nope, this is no job for sissies and I find that I love the show even more for that fact.

I've been continually intrigued by my love of the show. What attracts me to these hard-edged fisherman and the immense Bering Sea? I think, in large, masculinity, adventure, courage, the human spirit, the Hero's Journey of Separation, Initiation and Return. Initially, upon starting this post, I thought about paradox and still do where my love of this show is concerned, but that is a long post in and of itself and so, I'll dive into that at another time. However, the Hero's Journey seems a more compelling pull for me where this show is concerned. A pull I was not fully aware of until I sat down and got into this post.

These men heed to the call to adventure and are put to the test repeatedly in more than just physical ways. They simultaneously and repeatedly respect and confront one of the most intimidating forms of nature. And upon returning, many embark yet again the next season on this Hero's Journey. This has me thinking about my own journey and so, I realize that I derive much motivation and inspiration from the glimpses of these men on their journey. I esteem their courage and harness their masculinity, so that I can call upon my own courage and masculinity. It is a constant reminder that one can't experience the Hero's Journey in their own backyard, now can they, LBR?

Crab has never tasted better to me since falling in love with this show and I have very fond memories of crab and that very boyfriend that turned me onto the show. From that delightfully lazy, white and snowy winter day, eating a plate of crab while standing in his kitchen watching college basketball in his ridiculously-but-comfortably-too big hoop shorts... to our excursion at Newport... crabbing ourselves off the dock and although not catching anything, enjoying the experience and then really enjoying samplers at Rogue Brewery.

And so, aspirations of the Hero's Journey simultaneously harmonize with an immense contentedness with what is in our "backyard" that we often overlook. And who thought a bad ass documentary-like show on crab fishing could evoke such?! Me, of course!


Updated May 4th: Thanks to Morgan at the Cornelia Marie website for his mention of this post on his Captain's Blog. And thanks to all the fans of the Cornelia Marie and "Deadliest Catch" for checking this post out.

*If this idea of the Hero's Journey intrigues you in the least, Lynne Milum's "The Hero's Journey: A Campbellian Look at the Metaphorical Path to Personal Transformation" is a great read and not long at all. This is the article linked above.

**Photos from here, except for the last photo, which is from here.