I Demand Joy
I have arrived in Astoria, although certainly not in the way I intended. Phase II of the New And Improved Revised Journey (that is, the bits in the minivan) is complete. I can now drive from Portland to Astoria without a map. With my eyes closed.
I have sand between my toes.
On one of what seemed to be eight or nine trips between the two Oregon destinations, I came to the unexpectedly moving realization that I don't really know what joy is. I'm not sure how many people do. In this age of anti-depressants, therapists, and instant gratification, it almost seems quaint...a holdover from less distracted times.
What I do know is that what I've set out for myself now...cycling through a temperate clime along the coast, with ready access to the ocean...is a journey that seems as though it ought to produce a good measure of that there joy-type stuff.
And yet, this morning, for the god-knows-how-many'th time, I started awake with a ball of panic in my gut, as though a thunderclap had tossed me out of bed. No reason at all, it was just there, looming and full of dread, ready as always to take control of my entire day and turn it into a senseless trial.
And I'm just sick of it. Enough's enough. No more. I don't care if I've inherited a ridiculously hair-triggered fight-or-flight mechanism. Whatever patterns were softwired into my postnatal plastic brain can damn well unfold themselves. I've known for several years that my inner emotional life often had little connection to my outward circumstances, or was disproportionately intense...but at no time in my life has this been more evident than the past few days. Speeding through the landscapes of America on my way to what had been the best part of my grand plan - skipping to the dessert, essentially - I still couldn't shake out of the funk. No question: I do have some real-life Stuff going on. But until that water rolled over my bare feet, and I looked under the towering route 101 bridge out towards the widening Pacific, I didn't fully realize that I can choose whether to be overwhelmed or not.
I made it here. Not on my trike, but I'm here, and I'm ready to move on.
Tomorrow, I'll be heading off route a bit to Fort Stevens State Park, a little south and west of here. $4 camping for bikers, near the beach. It's not far, but my plan is to get into the rhythm I never achieved in Virginia and Kentucky by triking every day, even if it's not very far.
I'm not sure what the cell reception will be like out there, so posting may be sporadic. Hopefully, the Black Box will prove itself worth its weight.
