Sitting in a laundromat in Utah, prepping for the final leg of our journey to Yellowstone. Time has surely had its way with us, the year and a half since we signed up for this gig passing like water through a sieve. Waiting for my blankets to dry, I watch the assortment of people making their way into the shop, wrestling with the inconveniently placed, narrow glass door, much too small to accommodate the baskets, bags, and heavy duty duffels of bedding, towels, onesies, pjs, and long-neglected piles of work clothes.
I watch without being watched – an elderly couple dragging their bags behind them, refusing help; a wise old woman, clearly a regular, who laments her chore and berates herself for putting it off for so long; a young woman checking the window impatiently for some unknown person or thing; two young men, strangers to each other, aware only of the sounds emanating from their ear buds.
As I watch, I can’t help but imagine everyone’s story. And I wonder if they’re attempting to imagine mine, though it appears I’m mostly invisible. I wonder if they could imagine what I’ve been doing the past year, where I’ll be in a few days, what I’ll be doing over the next few months. Of course, I realize this is all quite self-absorbed. Yet I feel this urge to tell them all – to gather them in a story time semicircle and regale them with tales of an alternate life and unexpected adventure. Yep, totally self-absorbed.
Someone recently confessed that she often finds it difficult to read my posts, so removed are my experiences from her current reality. She confirmed the nagging feeling I’ve been having recently: Are my posts inconsiderate? Disconnected?
I look back at my fellow launderers and see the life lines on their faces, along their foreheads, dotting the corners of their mouths, outlining their eyes. I see the joy and pain, the struggle and triumph, the stress and the relief of life. A life, with all of its conditions and barriers, I left behind.
I find myself letting out a deep sigh. I am torn between the adventure I have chosen and the ties that bind. And yet, I feel bonds have grown stronger because there is more of me to share – more time, more experience, more stories, more of the person I feel I was meant to be.
My life is made up of several journeys, false starts, bumpy roads, and seemingly endless roundabouts. Along the way, there have been unexpected surprises, welcomed stops, gracious and loving hosts, and everlasting memories.
Somewhere, somehow, I found my way – saw my life through the eyes of my child, saw possibility in the eyes of a forever love. I heard the voices of my parents, urging me once again: “Go!” and “Be!”
And what of stability and responsibility? My parents are gone; my children have grown; my job appears done. Freedom means that stability and support are now mere hours away. Responsibility lies in the lessons, the experiences, and the maps I bequeath children, grandchildren, family, and friends.
I want to climb on the cracked, overused, plastic chair that grudgingly holds my weight and call out to the small gathering of souls, seemingly unaware of the opportunity lying before them. If only!!!!
A Latina woman in her mid-30s, walking in with a gaggle of kids, each holding armfuls of laundry, stops to order her children into position in front of a row of empty washers. “JaVIER!!! You’re dragging the cobijas!!”
Her familiar tone jolts me out of my presumptuous state and causes me to chuckle.
No matter who we are, who we become, or where life takes us, laundry will always be waiting – soiled, fetid, a constant reminder of that which we all share. I remain seated and silent, grateful that the ever-watchful spirits of my parents remain with me and keep me out of trouble – or at least out of perpetual embarrassment. I am instantly humbled.
