Starting Point

Thank goodness for the backspace button on my keyboard. Without it, there’s no telling what you might be reading right now instead. Let me begin by saying (or rather, by writing) that I feel like an impostor. I’m not a writer. Writers have something specific to say and tell stories with definitive points of view, with beginnings and ends. What’s my story, and who the hell am I to think it’s worthy of telling?? On the other hand, if you asked me if I am a stay-at-home mom, I would have to say that I am. And if you asked me if I drive a mini-van, I would have to say that I do. But I don’t FEEL like a mini-van driving stay-at-home mom, either. (Does anyone??)

The more honest answer to the existential question is- I don’t know who the hell I am. Which version do you want? The one that other people see? The person I imagine myself to be in my mind? The person I would like to be? The person I am when… (insert a million contingencies here.) All of these versions of our “selves” are based on the premise that the tangible world around us exists as we perceive it. That we are driving on solid streets, counting down the hours in linear fashion until the next intersection of humanity, of activity occurs. Well, what the hell else are you going to base your understanding of life on?! -you might ask (already not so certain you want to be in the passenger seat with the crazy lady.) I don’t know. 

Sure, I could set my watch by the daily school bell ringing at 2:28, but then, which version of time are we talking about? I have had too many experiences of things happening in great arcing loops, some of them coming full circle quickly, some making their return years, decades, later, and yet others spiraling over and over again, passing by the same place and picking up momentum (and perhaps more passengers)to think that life stays in line.These are the musings that occur when you have 19 minutes between dropping off one kid and picking up the next, and there’s nothing good on the radio. String along enough of these snippets, and you can do a little damage in the lost- in- bizarre thought department. (And perhaps a little damage to the bumper, as I consider the hard edge of the curb next to me really more of a guideline.)

I am generally not a specific facts and figures kind of person, but if I was, I could tell you exactly the percentage of time I spend every day at one point or another along an approximate 5 mile loop of road. I would venture to say, it’s a very high percentage. And with that in mind, you’d think I’d have a better sense of what time it was and where I was going. But, alas, I don’t. It takes every alarm in my possession (and the employment of the snooze button) to keep my brain tethered to this functional routine. 

Likewise, I don’t really know where I’m going with this whole writing thing. Could be far, could be nowhere. But it would appear that I’m (somewhat reluctantly, admittedly curiously) getting into the ol’ van and turning the key, so I suppose I’ll find out. And if you’re brave enough to ride shotgun, you might want to fasten your seatbelt. Can’t promise you it won’t be a bumpy road, or that we won’t find ourselves hopelessly lost. I can promise you that even on the most mundane, well –traveled loops, some truly unusual events and epiphanies will cross our path. This, I do know.