Descent, Ascent: D-Ascent, or the Ascent.
Ok. This is more like a moving, upheaval, life-change journal, I guess, which I think of in terms of going up a mountain: or going down into a deep, dark valley ( like the Valley of the Shadow of Death) and wondering where God is- and are we going in the right direction? And will the cat make the trip? And will the children be forever warped by the whole experience? I am now imagining a teenager yelling at me, blaming me for her bad attitude because I moved her around- oh, that was me when I was a teenager.
Ok. Gone off the beaten track, there. It can't be a beaten track, though, because if it was, I'd feel much more secure and cocky about the whole thing. Our lives are a foray into a wilderness, a track we must make ourselves. Sounds grand until you realize that you are on it, because then you realize just how small you are.
Let me backtrack and explain. We're on our way to Canada- to a little town west of Ottawa, where we are going to teach at a small Catholic college. We were in Santa Cruz, California. Now that right there should create a mental pause. "Wow, that's a change". I know you thought that because I've heard it more than I've heard "Hi" in the last few months. The other thing I've heard more than the 'Wow' comment is, "Oh the winter", or "Oh the bugs".
To be balanced ( which I am not right now), I have also heard, " Oh it is a beautiful place- it just grows on you". I can't really comment on this, because I haven't been there. I am also trying not to imagine it too much, because I want it just to be itself.
Right now, we're sort of stopped halfway between California and Canada, physically and culturally speaking. We're in Washington, on one of the San Juan Islands. Physically, it is much more wooded and it is more stark-looking than California (I am not allowing myself to think of the pinks, yellows, reds, purples and oranges). Washington has a more blue-grey-white-green-brown beauty to it. California is a flamenco dancer and Washington is a cowboy just off the fields. Culturally, the same metaphor applies. Thus, I've been weaned slowly off the exotic and getting ready for something more subtle- and tougher, I imagine.
Who are Canadians, though? What are they really like? I've been trying to get snatches from the CBC and conversations with the natives. It seems that they are much more reserved, I think; not like the candy-coated chatter of a Californian, or the in-your-face of the New Yorker. Perhaps they are more like the Washingtonians, but with a little European flair (a little less of the covered wagon simplicity, more subtlety). You can see here that I am shooting in the dark. I enjoy this immensely, partly because of my moves from culture to culture throughout my life, and partly because these thoughts distract me from the normal nervousness inherent in times of transit.
I should, though, push these thoughts aside and rather try to get through the travel days ahead in some semblance of sanity. One of my favorite places to be in is on the tarmac of life, the airports and new places- handing over your passport for inspection just makes me feel right at home. But not with three little children and a cat. A friend said innocently, "Is that the cat you had to chase down Soquel Ave on your way out of Santa Cruz?"
Poor children, though, I have to say. Well, I don't know who will be the poorer at the end of this coming flight. Perhaps I will be the poorer in the sanity department; perhaps they will be richer for the suffering I am imposing on them. Or, just maybe, maybe, it will be an adventure in the true sense of the word: an experience that draws the best and worst parts out of us all and makes us choose which part we'll be. It is, after all quite commonplace to see a woman with a large red bag, computer bag and a cat in a bag, towing three children with their own cute little Spiderman or princess bags.
I'll be back.
