I got home last night from a Southern month away. In an unprecedented stroke of bad luck turned good, I got to leave Maine from the middle of January to the middle of February, a month filled with exploring new places and spending time with friends, with life on a sailboat and life in an oceanfront spa, with alone time and romantic time. I got to keep up with work enough so as not to create a hole that would be hard to dig out of while still finding wide spaces of time that were unspoken for.
It was everything I could have asked for from a vacation and it was a vacation I didn’t ask for. In fact, that was the bad luck part. The vacation was built from a conspiracy of people who love me concocting a way for my slowly healing body to bathe in warmer climates, out of reach of falling on ice and getting stuck in snow and the general hardships of New England winters. It was a gift of many. And it worked. Nothing bad happened and now I am home and I’m looking for a sign that says what’s next.
I can’t quite see it. In fact, I don’t even know where to look. All I know to do is try writing about it.
Last June, I had a motorcycle accident which broke many of my bones, actually kind of broke me in half, and squished my head and my lungs in the process. My body, my life, my work, my family and my friends were thrown into mayhem with little clarity as to what we could hope for from recovery. All I knew was that my body wasn’t working right, that it hurt a lot, that I wasn’t able to walk or to work or to read or to write. My partner, my family and my friends did everything they could to comfort me and lift my spirits. I would not have made it through that time without them.
But now, nearly eight months and many surgeries later, I want to get going. I know my bones are still working on finishing touches, my brain is sorting through little pools of thoughts and images shaken loose from their footings, and the finances are in a heap on the floor, yes, I know these are still in process. But while that’s going on, I want something to come together in a way that makes sense to me, in a way that feels familiar and yet also promises to make at least some of this worth having happened.
That’s why I’m glad I got to go south. That for at least some of the time I was away, I felt like more was possible. A new version of me and my life, waiting to be written. I thought of things I don’t remember thinking of before. I sailed for the first time. I stayed with friends for nearly the first ime in my life. I walked around a new city by myself and said hello to people and drank coffee and handed out brochures. I felt better than I have in quite a while.
And now, at home, I feel as though there’s a part of me that has started a life somewhere else. I like that. It’s risk and hard work and uncertainty, as Regina puts it, that while I didn’t choose it to begin with, I welcome the energy of it. Born of life on life’s terms, fueled by love. Creating new vistas. It’s ultimately what feeds me. Even when I don’t know what to look for, I know there’s more coming.