Destiny can be changed. But you
– September, “Fringe” Season 5
have to have the will to change it.
Even if it requires sacrifice.
What we believe becomes a part of who we are. So we
– Aubrey Marcus
defend our beliefs like we would defend our own flesh and blood.
But beliefs are not who you are. They are ephemeral things,
and you are the unborn and undying essence of awareness.
Friday July 7 and Saturday July 8
Hard to believe it’s been three weeks today since setting out from Provo. In a way it seems no time had passed at all, and in others, that it’s been a lifetime. While I can’t say I’m not excited about only four more days of gardening (aka dueling with the Weeds of Doom), I will be sad to say farewell to Olle and the crew. Here’s what I’ve been up to in the mean time as the plot thickens with each passing day. What story exactly only time will tell, though I myself could never resist a good mystery.
. . . . .
The sun was out. The heat reflected off my forearms, now slick with sweat. The trowel that was just in my hand was for the moment abandoned. This section of the garden required yanking of thick weed stalks, and that required some hands and knees elbow grease. I could have thrown on my long-sleeved work shirt to protect from the sun, but the humidity was high from the recent rainfall in the past week, making the air like steam. My ripening farmer’s tan would have to take a hit, I figured, but it would be worth it.
In my periphery, I heard the new girls, whispering to themselves softly in Spanish. I had met the new crew briefly the night before when I picked them up from the train station. The two friends from Spain, Marina and Maria, were out abroad for a bit. The Brazilian gentleman, Roberto, was working on a PhD thesis and headed to Lapland to interview the Sami people. All three of them were welcome additions to the farm family, and I had liked all three immediately.
There was supposed to be a Saturday flea market that morning, and the girls were proactive, figuring out rides. There was confusion in their voices, and no wonder: with a quick glance at the auxiliary house, I could hear what had to be the sounds of battle.
“Roberto is cleaning the house,” they explained. Because he needed space to stream with students, he was staying in a spare room in the adjacent house, next to the main farmhouse. There was an antiquated kitchen the next room over to him, complete with an iron cauldron, a brick oven, and a sauna room behind. I’d seen kitchens like that only in museums back in the States, touring sites like Jamestown or pioneer villages. He did say the property had been in the family since the 1600’s. Sturdy furniture filled the corners of the room, but in between lay, well bits of modern odd and ends: panes of glass, complete windows, boxes filled with plates and candles, tools of every make and size. Not to mention the giant scythe blades, rusted yet still dangerous from their wicked blades the size of me. The girls were carrying things passed to them from Roberto in his attempt to tidy the unspeakable disorder. A valiant effort, my friend, albeit a foolhardy one. Spaces in the main house and others were similarly strewn with objects and furniture, re-enacting a movie set from a scary movie or tornado wreckage.
I yanked another weed. The day I cleaned the farmhouse in Virginia came to mind: I’d gone through each cluttered hallway and closet, throwing away piles of discarded bits of garbage and mouse-nested clothes, left unsorted for years. Things I had boxed up for Goodwill donations had remained stacked in the hallway where I’d left them one year prior. The term hoarder was never one my mother would admit to, though I knew the truth. So did Dane, my best friend from the nearby neighborhood. He helped me load the 65 bags of garbage into a car, because they were too heavy to carry, to dump at the curb for pickup. He looked as exasperated as I should have felt, but by the time our last load was done it was 10:00 pm, and it was starting to get chilly. I felt sorry for the garbage men who had to deal with the loads by hand, but not as sorry as I did for myself the next day. From my window, my mother berated me for throwing out things that were perfectly good, things she could use. I knew for a fact she hadn’t seen any of that in years, and never blinked missing its existence. She picked through the bags that were now rained on, calling out to me to join and save the good stuff.
. . . . .
We sorted the items from the house outside on the lawn. The boys were back from their field jobs, watching us with widening eyes.
“You know it’s going to rain soon,” Victor mentioned politely.
“Oh, I know,” I agreed. Maybe he was alarmed at how nonplussed I was. When you’re dealing with 65 bags of garbage, I thought to myself, the rest is a piece of cake.
“When do you think we’ll be done?” I asked, a playful smile on my lips.
“Three days,” Francesco chimed in.
“How about 3:00 pm”, I added.
“How very, er, optimistic,” Victor conceded.
“Bye bye flea market,” Francesco sang. We all cracked up at that.
I’d put down my trowel to help in the assembly line. The girls and I put similar items in boxes, putting the boxes aside to be re-put into the vacuumed and mopped space inside. I’ll admit I’m still doubtful as to scrubbing the floors with soap and water, which just seemed a bit of overkill for a storage room. But that’s just my opinion. I did create a rubbish pile of packaging scraps into which I gleefully threw while exclaiming “Basura!” causing my new teammates to smile.
I don’t have all the information. And like the truth depends on its teller, facts also change, depending on the situation. I consider myself an observer, and not without subjective opinions, things are what they are,
. . . . .
Messages from home lit up the screen.
I think mom is going nuts. She keeps crying and watching YouTube clips. And she got peeved at me to help make tacos. I was making myself donuts and she told me they were too dark, asked me to make her some, then didn’t eat it. She got peeved with my tone and as usual ignored my apology. Ugh.
But on the bright side I’ve made some progress with my fanfiction. And I have Sunday off! Hurray!
It’s arguable who has been hit the hardest with my mother’s divorce. She was married to the narcissist, and I know her psyche is still bruised. Jaquie is with a douchebag boyfriend, so there’s that. But out of everyone, Elena worries me the most. I think because she’s so passive and tender, her soul takes a beating the easiest. The fallout of familial discontent surrounds her, and it’s sad to see her caught in the middle of it. For a girl who just wants to buy yarn, make donuts write fanfiction, fate has not been gentle with her gentle being.
Over the past few weeks, every once in a while a text of a sibling’s distress comes through. With Raquel it’s her vs. her in-laws; Ana vs. universe; Ana vs. mom; and that day Elena vs. mom. The smallness of the crowded house was getting to them, to me too before I left, and I was. My mother, whether from shutting down from stress, or an unwillingness to let others make decisions for her, her concerns for our rental contract running out I think have bled over into domestic disturbance.
I told John once I couldn’t be around a serial killer because while I would understand him, I wouldn’t want to empathize with him. That’s what I do – empathize. It’s good for the serial killer and all, but not for me.
I’m not saying I don’t want to be there for others. Other have been and continue to be there for me, and I am grateful. And the grateful thing to do is pass it on where it’s needed most. If there is something I could do, I should do it.
And yet.
If my hands are outreached steadying others, where are the hands that steady me? I think the answer is not a simple one, nor is it an unchanging one. I came out here to work on some writing projects while exploring and experiencing, and I have been lucky enough to do that. If I’m gonna be anywhere this summer, praise be it’s not in Provo, Utah. It’s also been a chance to focus on myself, and while I am still there for my family, to take not just time, but space for myself.
Because my space was limited, I brought some travel-size scriptures and my most recent Amazon buy, the memoirs Lay the Favorite by Beth Raymer. I’d seen the film while dogsitting Auggie the miniature ewok, he snuggling with me while I was enchanted by the true story of the intrepid heroine. So many parts I love, but one of the most interesting being her commentary on her coterie. The universe, she comments, pairs her again and again with Jewish gamblers from Long Island. Is that destiny at work? Something more than coincidence? Incidentally, she meets and marries a – you guessed it – Jewish kid, if not from, definitely in New York. Maybe the universe was pointing out a detail to pay attention to.
Maybe I’m destined to be around others who are unstable, emotionally, mentally, or otherwise. Maybe that’s the universe saying buckle your seatbelt, here’s your future, and it is gonna be bumpy. But I can’t believe that I’m chained to that dismal fate. Maybe it’s shown me what I should be wary or aware of, so I can choose something better if not in others, than in myself. Maybe it’s a type and shadow of who someday I’ll meet and be so surprised he’s stable and steady I’ll marry that reliable, honest bastard on the spot. Dunno. The future is not mine to see, nor is my destiny.
But it is mine to believe. If sacrifice is the cost, well, the price of pride and preconceived notions make a pricey offering. I can do that, though. I mean, look at the weeds I’ve pulled and the 65 bags of garbage I battled. Not big wins, certainly, but I’ll take it. And maybe, just maybe, I can dare to believe something bright is possible. Even for someone like me.
. . . . .
Highlights:
-Roberto truly is a well of optimism and wisdom. Even after scrubbing wooden floors on his hands and knees, he cheerfully walked the couple of miles to ICA (the local grocery store) to pick up some ground beef because we’d mentioned making shepherd’s pie. With sides of bread, leftover watermelon, and a beautiful salad made by Francesco a little later on, our combined efforts for an outdoor dinner were lovely.
-Dinner DJ Victor lent me the reins during the meal. I played Dani J and Prince Royce for the girls, and they were surprised I knew all the words to “Como te atreves a volver” and CNCO bops.