“Life is full of chaos. Almost like the harder you try to regulate, the more you get thrown off course. Sometimes a moving vehicle is the best refuge. Or as now, when the rhythm of the washing machine churns in sync with the rock band rehearsal in a nearby studio, & I depend on writing to be my ride, and lead me to stasis of spirit. Being without wheels since my starter died, I’ve been “stuck in the middle with you”, if anyone gets that lyrical reference. I had to stretch myself in so many ways to claw back to normal, it was almost funny. Triple A membership lapsed, a visiting handy-person took on the battery replacement, while I had unexpected time to think on how isolation is no longer my issue. A neighbor’s dog, my daughter’s chickens, a delivery of kiln dried wood needing immediate attention, the impending press of storm clouds. My attempts to escape it all, thwarted, each and every moment. Meals interrupted, pools of reflection redirected, thought processes fully hijacked to meet the immediacy, of the real people I know, or find myself bumped up against, and unequivocally, love. Part of me is aggrieved, while the other celebrates. Too many people, too much food waste, too much mess, too much noise ... alternates with the happy feeling of communal activity. The rain, coming in sudden downpours, douses my 2nd, more experienced mechanic. He’s lying on his back, under my truck. I can only see half of him. I sit on the roll of road fabric I bought from a farm supply recently, going out of business. I’m good to chat, but mostly, we’re don’t talk. The damp clink of the ratchet on gravel, the shifting slide of the cardboard he’s lying on as he moves, the rain dripping off the Chevy. It’s a church service, for me. Silence is respect, and an unending list of things I couldn’t articulate, not to him or anyone. After the repair, we debrief by the wood stove he moved for me, last year. The crisp flames shed strong heat, due to a year of better planning. He’s brought me some food, from the take-out at the general store. “You don’t eat”, he says. It’s not true, but I understand what he sees. There is a feral instinct I fall back on, when all else fails. Despite our age difference, he is able to identify one of his own pack. The heat is a balm. After a couple hours, he leaves, refusing payment. I know it’s useless to argue, but I’ll do something, behind his back. Today, I was thinking about it some more. “Actions speak louder than words’ came to mind. This is especially true, for people who have lost their voice. And when no one is listening, no matter how deftly you formulate rational explanations, plead, or succumb to the strangulation of your spirit, there is still, a way.”
