It’s laughable to me just how out of order I’m writing about my travels, but then, that disarray might be more indicative of my life these last months than tidy chronological order would be.
It’s been several weeks since I was in Louisiana. I drove through the whole state of Texas in a day, lingered a few days in El Paso, spent another day in New Mexico, stayed these last weeks in southern Arizona, and went to Mexico for a teeth cleaning, which belongs to a future writing.
But, as the rain pours in Arizona today, my mind is on Louisiana – that cold, wet winter place where I got my heart broken and had plenty (I mean plenty) of time to ponder my identity and whether it would crumble or remain steadfast.
Evidently Louisiana winters are wet. Lesson one. So wet, in fact, that I had to call my wwoof host upon arrival to see if it was safe to venture down his driveway, because, like that episode of “The Office” where Michael and Dwight drive into a lake, that’s exactly where the GPS appeared to be taking me. At least, if nothing else, I had more sense than Michael and Dwight (although that isn’t saying much).
My time in Colliston, Louisiana was sort of living the high life, at least by wwoofer standards. Our host took us out to eat at a local Italian place, and at a highbrow taco joint. He took us to a screening of an independent film, all the way in the hip town of Shreveport. We wwoofers had a whole house to ourselves, with so much time to read or write or draw or piddle. There was a yoga room, and I was very thankful to incorporate such a regular yoga practice back into my days.
Other than keeping the very hungry horses fed, there weren’t as many farm chores as I’d grown accustomed to. Some days, he’d say, “It’s much too cold to be outside,” and that would be that. There was a great deal of weeding where I angry-pulled those suckers and took it very personally when one would refuse to be uprooted. “I may not have a man or any money when this is all over,” I thought to myself, “but I will have muscles and a tan, so.”
There was a large composting pile in which fresh onions were growing. “Life is tenacious,” my host said when I showed him. (By the way, I want to be this man when I grow up. He works internationally and was in between trips to Tanzania and Thailand during my stay. #goals, amirite?)
I was productive in a very personal way. I drew a whole lot. I exercised. I sat with my own mind and tried to rewire the whole dang thing. I thought about splitting up with people, regardless of the form the relationship took, and how I always had the tendency to divvy up interests afterwards, like physical possessions in the aftermath of a divorce. “Well, he liked that band; am I still allowed to like it?” “I wouldn’t have known about this famous funny mortician if it hadn’t been for ____. Am I still into her?” “Ugh, he’s an artist too? Well, screw my artistic dreams! The world’s not big enough for us both!”
This may come as a surprise to some of you (though probably fewer of you than I’d like to think) that I’m actually very dramatic.
This is not a blog about mental health, other than when it comes up in my own journey. I took a great interest in psychology a few years ago and attempted to delve in deep, only to find that, the more I discovered, the more shaky my foundations became. The more I knew the less I understood.
All that’s really relevant to this post is that I have a disorder with a very shaky sense of identity. I have a tendency to mirror whomever I’m spending time with, to trade out personalities fluidly like a chameleon changes colors (although this isn’t very fluid for me internally; it’s actually rather jagged and jarring, and leaves me with a great deal of whiplash).
Ergo, there were lots of thoughts about identity in this cold, wet Louisiana haven.
I am still myself, I thought, despite everything I am still her. I worked damn hard to find her. And then I scoffed at that, at that word. “Find,” as if it’s something that I just stumbled upon while out on a lackadaisical stroll, “find” as if I chanced upon it in a thrift shop, “find” as if it was something I lost and rediscovered only through serendipity. Ha. Oh, no.
There were blood and sweat and tears as I carved into myself like a sculptor slices into wood or stone to find whatever it is that slab is supposed to be. It's not a discovery; it's a decision. Let’s be intentional about who we are, shall we?
I became; and I am becoming.
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