Sticking the Landing Part 1

When I began my journey to California in August of 2022, I thought I had prepared well. I'd packed 54 years of my life, going through every item, deciding what to keep, give, sell or store. I wasn't just packing up my own life; Both of my children were launching into their college careers. While their childhood bedrooms and memories were securely staged at their dad's house, their memorabilia, artwork, notes, school projects etc.were mine to memorialize or store. My true treasures became obvious in this process.

 I mean, how could I possibly get rid of this?

Or these?

While my old mantra of "traveling light" echoed its double meaning to me, I filled my newly purchased used mini-van bumper to bumper with what I believed to be the most important things, hoping I could fit it all in.

I was excited to get on with my new life. An excruciatingly long divorce process followed by Covid had me isolated, broke and broken for nearly a decade. I was ready to go! Get out of Dodge! Start the life that'd been waiting so long.

But just as I was exiting stage left, a test of integrity, financial stability and emotional fortitude knocked me off my axis. This unexpected trial of core values forced me to change my time line as many times as I rearranged the van. Ultimately I left 3 weeks later than I had scheduled having had to rent a 5x5 storage for what my hope couldn't force to fit in the van...

It didn't REALLY matter when I left. I was heading into the unknown. No one was expecting or waiting for me on the other end as far as I knew.

I left at dawn with grand illusions of blogging about my journey with pictures and such in real time. I've been told I take good pictures. The truth is - I'm just at the right place, at the right time. Like this beauty taken on that first stretch of my trail in Southern Illinois on my way to Oklahoma to see an old friend. I may or may not have been going at least 55 on this cool morning with my right arm stretched as close to the open passenger window as possible, the camera pointing blindly to the West. I took dozens of photos this way, as I often do, in hopes that one might have captured the moment.

This one did.

Come now, how much credit can I take? All creds go to the Master Artist and I guess I should give a nod to the camera /phone maker. But I won't.

I arrived in Tulsa in the early afternoon of August 21st. My friend lives near The Greenwood District the location of "the worst incident of mass racial violence against a black community in United States history." Black Wall Street and it's resurrection after hatred tried to erase it, was somehow erased from any history I learned. It wasn't until 2020 when our past and present violently converged, that I began to see what I never knew was right in front of me. The truth is rarely convenient or pretty, but burying it only contaminates what grows from that soil. We, individually and corporately, will either be willing to learn and grow from our history - or we will keep repeating it. I have a whole lot more to say about this. But not now...

The next morning, I left to continue my journey to California. I was feeling unsettled, like I had more to do before I left the area. Tulsa was the location of a significant life event more than 30 years before, when I was young and believed differently than I do now. I drove around a bit to stir my memory and found a whole lot more than that being stirred. My unsettledness became anxiety. Some buried truth was gurgling up from this Oklahoma soil. My simple trip down memory lane became a 10 car pile up of unprocessed issues about religion, abusive authority, greed and the exploitation of pure intent. I couldn't see what caused the accident in the moment. All I knew was instead of warm nostalgia - I felt nauseous and panicked. I felt a strong but loving unction to book a hotel and stay another night.

Instead I left. I could feel the memories wanting to be sorted but I just drove away.

I got outta Tulsa as fast as I could to continue towards California leaving trauma to be to be dealt with another time.

But you know what left with me?

The anxiety.

Throughout the day I kept seeing these pictures of my van upside-down in the median, all of my belongings life strewn about the grass. It was just my imagination mind you but my mind would race with thoughts.

What would I do if that happened?

Who would I call?

I don't think I could survive another terrible life event!

Where is my insurance card?

How can I know where my kids art is but not know where my insurance card is?

I berate myself for miles. The extent of my aloneness is screaming at me. I should have stayed in Tulsa. I pulled on and off the highway a dozen times throughout the day. Sometimes because I needed gas or to use a bathroom. Most often because the anxiety was so intense.

After 7 or 8 hours of this, while filling up the tank, I booked a hotel just 2 miles away. "Phew, I made it." I thought as I turn right out of the gas station onto the one way street that runs along the highway. I wonder where I might get dinner other than the giant cowboy BBQ place advertised that I can see up the street. "There has to be something else around," I think as I pull out. Then - BAM! I get hit. The accident I'd been anticipating.

It is not devastating. I am not in the middle of the highway. My world is not strewn about. I was physically unharmed. The same was true for the couple in the other car on their way to a funeral.

Of course the unknown location of the insurance card became problematic. In my packed to the max vehicle, there was no way I was going to find that card. I suggest we drive to the hotel I'd just booked, it's right there, I can literally see it from where we are. The one says her mother works for the sheriff's department and that would be considered fleeing the scene. The other says at one point, as if I couldn't hear him, "should we see if we can get some money out of this?" I am alone in the middle of Texas. The level of vulnerability I felt at this point can not be exaggerated. I don't know what it looked like on the outside, but I am a frantic mess inside.

The police come. Information is exchanged. I am issued a ticket for not having proof of insurance which can be waived if I show proof at the Amarillo Police Department. Everyone goes their ways.

I shakily made my way to the hotel.

I am thankful I didn't get shaken down by the duo or thrown in the joint by the cop. I am a gifted painter of worst case scenarios. I had seen both of those scenes in detail. Like I said, I was thankful.

The one night stay at the hotel became three as I figured out what I needed to do next.

First I had to determine if I needed to find a mechanic. I didn't. I was able to adjust the damage so it didn't scrape the tire. The front left blinker was out but it was drivable.

Then the priority of obtaining proof of insurance. I know for most people it is a no brainer. You call your agent, you look on line. That night, my brain took a fairly simple problem and by morning I had been convinced that I had NOT renewed my insurance and it was very likely that I could lose everything as I recall them saying, "should we try and get some money out of this?" I was spiraling with fear.

I felt so incredibly alone.

My view from the hotel room was this farm with one lone bull that roamed this huge area. His presence still carried strength in the vastness of space. No one would mess with that bull. I knew I did not present that confidently in this great big world I had just flung myself out into. The years of isolation beckoned me to return. How am I going to do this?

Out of nowhere a lifeline drops in my head, "I HAD to have had insurance when I bought the van."

On a whim I called the dealer who sold me me the car 3 months before. I had no clue if she would be able to help, or if she would even remember me.

"Of course I remember you," she said. "I wear the earrings you gave me all the time." I had forgotten that I had given her a pair of my earrings. She had not. Now this near stranger was exceedingly willing to help me in my predicament. Within an hour she had contacted her manager - and I had a copy of my insurance card. I wouldn't call it a miracle. But Goodness and Mercy were all over that.

The next day I wisely switched my GPS to keep me off the highway on the way to the Amarillo Police Department. I wanted to test the van with the damage on slower roads before I found myself on a long stretch of highway with a serious problem.

I paid the ticket without incident drove back to the hotel to reload the van and get Bugs ready to move on.

Wait! I haven't told you that this whole time I am traveling with a rabbit!

Yes, well, everyone meet Bugs!

How could I forget to tell you about Bugs our free roam Mini Rex rabbit. He feels like a chinchilla and acts like a cat.

Bugs had gotten pretty happy in the three days we were at the hotel in Amarillo. He didn't care the circumstances that caused it. He was just happy to be on solid ground, not in a moving vehicle after being uprooted from the only home he'd ever known.

We both got a good nights rest to muster our courage and willingness to continue the journey the next day...

Part 2.