Sitting in the loft, I stare out the windows. Beyond the last of the orange and yellow leaves fluttering excitedly. Across the valley, to the hills in the distance.
It’s been a couple years since we’ve been in Georgia, but I’m pretty sure we passed close to this area. Heading North from Florida, Goliath was faithfully, albeit slowly, making his way through the mountains. Over the last several hundred miles he’d developed a tick, needing a jumpstart every time we came to stop. That wasn’t too difficult to get, so I didn’t really think much of it.
Weaving along Georgia back roads, I pulled off to fuel up. Saw a man pumping gas and thought, Perfect, I’ll ask him for a jump. Hopping out of the van, I smiled. The man came over immediately. Launched straight into a tirade of crazy stories. Looking around the deserted station, I thought, Oh man, I’m gonna have to ask him for a jump. He, of course, enthusiastically agreed.
Jumper cables in place, he took both my hands, I wrote you a song. I’m gonna sing it to you now. I stood awkwardly, panicked half-smile frozen in place. He stepped into my personal space bubble, proceeded to passionately belt out verse after verse after verse of his homemade song. The moment he paused for breath I thanked him, wiggled my hands free, grabbed the cables, leapt into the van and peeled out of there as quickly as that tiny air-cooled engine could handle. Straight to a mechanic to avoid any future jumpstart induced serenades.
I giggle at the memory. Am happy to be back, expanding my Georgian impressions.
Crunching along the path, the forest is silent but for the sound of crisp leaves bumping against one another. We meander farther into the trees. Watch as light scatters across the leaf-covered path. Baylor runs ahead. Trots back. Gets caught up investigating a new scent and falls behind. I dart off the path, hide behind a tree, wait to surprise Baylor. He comes over grinning, You’re crazy. I totally see you.
Back at the cabin, I can’t believe how lucky we are to have use of this space. Am awed that strangers-turned-friends would so kindly offer this most perfect writing retreat.
Checking my phone, I see a message from Larry. Visitors will be stopping by the cabin soon, he’ll need to figure out a time to come back from the city to remove leaves from the driveway.
Can I do it? Seriously, I have a strange love of household chores, I respond.
He hesitates. I assure him. I truly want to do this. Friends in Bend know this about me. They learned it’s not unusual to come home to find their entire wood pile split and stacked or the house unexpectedly vacuumed and tidied. The type of chores I might find annoying if they were my full-time domestic responsibilities are instead fun and entertaining when done sporadically in service of others.
Supplies gathered, I look it over. Put on my noise canceling headphones. Yank on the chord until it rumbles to life. Sling the straps over my shoulders. Walk to the driveway. Send leaves into a flurry.
Baylor wanders over, stands in the tornado of orange and yellow. Remains completely reaction-less until I crack up. Looks over his shoulder grinning and trots off.
Working my way back up the driveway, I think about the many surprises in life. Two years ago, I could hardly believe I was living in a van, traveling the country with Baylor. And now two years later I certainly never would’ve thought I’d be hanging out at cabin tucked into the North Georgian mountains feeling like a ghostbuster with a leaf blower strapped to my back.
But I guess that’s the thing about life. We can plan it out precisely, wish it were a train ride, and then end up missing out and feeling frustrated that it didn’t go our way. Or we can give up the facade of control, remain open to detours, and end up discovering the joy and magic of the unexpected.
Or as Joseph Campbell put it,
We must be willing to let go of the life we’ve planned, so as to have the life that is waiting for us.
151 days down. Many to come.
