I might spend my whole life runnin'; around; Still let the wind kinda blow me around. Part II. The long way home.

Part II: The Long Way Home







I might spend my whole life runnin' around; Still let the wind kinda blow me around.

The thing about 25...

My 25th Quarter-Century Celebration

I thought my year of 25 was terrible. My boyfriend and I broke up-- twice I think-- and after I chased a very unhealthy relationship for a very long time, things had to change. Work was becoming deeply disturbing and saddening, and worst of all, unfulfilling. Some of the important people in my life, or people who I counted among those, faded away. I spent Christmas away from home. And I spent way too much time crying. Even though it started off with a glorious quarter-century birthday party that I threw for myself--I hated 25 for almost everything that happened that year. There was so much sadness and difficulty in most of those 12 months and I wanted to blame it all on the world and being 25. But now I see that all of that pain and hardship had to happen for me to be so disrupted, so shoved out of anything comfortable that I would have to be forced to either continue on completely miserable, or embrace a change.

Don Miller says characters have to be forced to change because they won’t do it willingly. Don Miller is very wise in my opinion. We characters have to sometimes be dragged kicking and screaming for a while or for
several miles before we see the merit in moving forward on our own. I wouldn't say that I am opposed to change; rather I am opposed to chaotic spontaneous unplanned change. And sometimes that how change has to happen so I’m not always quick to embrace or adapt to it. And sometimes I don't even know where to start and what to change so I give up and leave things as they are because they are comfortable and familiar, even if they are miserable.

But I believe that when we are listening and putting our faith in God to lead us, that the way will be just a little easier. And in the same manner, if we insist on our own way, forging ahead regardless, I believe the way will continue to trap us in the bramble as we fight and end up becoming more and more entangled. Everywhere I turned at 25 I was tangled up in all kinds of messes. But I insisted that I was going to cut and hack my way through on my own path. And I led myself into a lot of pain.

It’s easy to get caught up in doing things your own way, and it’s natural to insist on looking ahead and trying to map it out. But life doesn't work that way. Looking back I can see why the places I stumbled were necessary, even though they were and still are hard. That’s the faith part though—trusting enough to take another step even though you might not see the whole staircase. Trusting because you feel in your heart that it’s right, even if you can’t see or touch that reality at that exact moment.

And it’s not just when you have a crappy 25—it’s anytime whether you are 85 or just 5. Or even if you are 3 like my sister Eden, because her life is really tough sometimes with people telling her she is too small for everything and giving her too much cereal or not enough juice. Life is hard at all ages at times. Eden trusts that someone will get her some more juice, and someday she’ll grow bigger. She has the trusting heart of a child. Which is what we all must aspire to have.

Towards the end of my 25, I wasn't happy and I had to do something to change that. And it meant taking a big risk.

And that risk was very scary and very unsettling.  Some might say that risk was irresponsible. It was certainly uncharacteristic. But I’m certain of two things: That risk was necessary; and that risk was exactly the type of risk I needed to take to get my feet pointed in the right direction. In fact, I have never before been so passionate about something, so compelled from within my heart that something had to happen, as I was about this trip.

As I write this, several weeks after my return because of the chaos that swirled up once I got back, I know 100% I did the right things. Reading my journal entries and descriptions of my days that are scribbled out on scrap paper, I get to briefly relive the past few weeks of joy.

I created my own happiness by becoming an active character in my story, trusting my God to lead me, and setting one foot in front of the other. I got on the right path, I finished 25 out strong, and I left without even taking a map. We don't get a map for life anyway, so leaving for a small portion of life without one should not be a huge deal. Plus I had Siri.

Part II is the journey home, the summary of the drafts and notes and pieces of paper and candy wrappers that I scribbled thoughts and experiences on as I made my way North, back to the NoDak. Part II is part resolution, and part beginning because my story has just begun...

5/10/2013. - Day 45 - Red sky in the morning, sailors take warning. Girls in dresses, you take warning, too.

5/10/2013. Some Nights I stay up cashing in my bad luck;
Some nights I call it a draw...




Red sky in the morning, sailors take warning. Girls in dresses, you take warning, too.

The sun is just peeking over the horizon as I reach the end of the boardwalk and make my way down to the sand. I have somehow convinced my body to get out of bed at dawn to see the sunrise on Sullivan's Island this morning. It's a gorgeous morning, with a few other early risers beach combing and walking their dogs. I enjoy the sea salt breeze and sound of the waves as I walk for awhile and soak it all in.

I return home from my morning outing and grab a quick nap before facing my last day in Chucktown. I decide to take the bike downtown one last time and catch a few more shots of my favorites, enjoy the view from the battery, and take in old Charleston once more.

Later in the afternoon I relax at Sullivan's Island and do some beach combing and swimming and sun tanning. It will be cold when I return and there will be no sitting on a beach any time soon after I get back to the Northland. The time to enjoy is now. But then, isn't it always?





On the way home I hit some shops near the beach and then return to get ready for our last hurrah on the town. Of course we are going to Shem Creek because it's been our signature since Jamie landed in Charleston. We have a quiet corner spot in a bar on Shem called Vickery's that's usually not too busy. It's still extremely hot and humid out so we don dresses and head out.

The night that ensues is entertaining. On the drive to Shem, we pass a car that has not only driven directly onto the middle of the median, but has also collided head on with a sturdy palm and knocked it clear over. The car is on top of the palm, in the middle of the road. An omen for the night's events ahead.

We arrive at Shem Creek and head for Vickery's. We have recently realized that a certain gentleman we have run into several times in the last two weeks, and who we continually keep thinking looks familiar, is actually the bar tender who is there every year when we go. He is again here and we make small talk with this man, code named "T.Vickery's," before two strangers take interest in us.

Beside us at the bar sit two middle aged men, one of them very large and very Southern and very loud. Both well watered. They engage in conversation with us, though we try to let on we are not "interested." At some point the smaller one yells out "FARRR-GOOOO," followed by a few expletives. Later, the large Southern gentleman is telling us that it's a shame we are leaving town so soon (it's possible we told him we were just passing through...). He continues about how he has horses and boats and we should come out with him because "nobody knows the backwater like [he] knows the backwater." This is very sketchy. He continues to give Jamie a long drawn out speech about his dogs, their heritage, how this ties in with his previous girlfriend, why he doesn't have a girlfriend anymore, and finally, about his idea for a food truck. He proudly declares to Jamie that the food truck will be called "The Big Southern" because, well, and then he gestures to himself to indicate his point. Well done.

There is also another group of saturated individuals milling around our little corner of Shem, stumbling and falling about. At one point, one of them perches precariously at the bar, opposite us. His eyes are glazed but he is staring intently at me. This signals more trouble.

As soon as we notice the glazed donut across the counter, he rallies himself and starts our way. I apologize for what I have to describe next, but it's important for a variety of reasons, not the least of which is accuracy in story telling. Glaze approaches and stands silently in front of us, before stating that "he just has to say" that I am the "baddest bitch up in this place." Jamie and I stare, stunned, trying to understand his angle. Jamie recovers first and inquires as to what exactly makes me the "baddest bitch," in his mind. He falters, and explains that Jamie is "hot" but returns to me and goes on to then state that I am the "finest motherfucker." Um. OK.
So I think it's better at this point to be "hot" than whatever he is trying for with the verbiage he's slinging in my direction... I'm still unable to say anything; it's too unbelievable. Jamie, however, is enjoying instigating the situation and goes further, asking him if he is sure that he wants to go with "motherfucker" as a descriptor for me. He then presents as though she's hurt his feelings, and counters with a slurred version of "Hey I'm just trying to pay her a compliment, ok?" Jamie pushes further and questions this "compliment." He finally staggers away and we sit quietly for a moment taking in the situation.

It should be noted to any of the gentlemen reading this, if there are any--approaching a girl in a bar is risky business as it is. There are very few respectable outcomes to this approach, so you should be clear on that first. Unless you are asking for directions, inquiring as to what time church services are in the morning, or are looking for advice as to whether or not you should start down that slippery slope that is Gossip Girl--there really aren't a lot of positive conversation starters. I'm not saying every bar meeting is negative; I'm saying know your odds and expectations before you enter the playing field. Next, level of intoxication is also something to consider, and sidling up to a lady when you are largely incapacitated is also a questionable choice. But using the descriptors listed above is never, under any circumstances, acceptable, and I'm not even going to get into why they are never to be used as a compliment. Please tell me that explanation was unnecessary.

Clearly "asking for it."

Of course it couldn't end with that, and later that night (or earlier Saturday morning--however you want to look at it), I received additional confirming details that the males in my demographic are quite colorful. T.Vickery's and I wind up in an awkward situation which involves a conversation about him being included in our evenings out, and our interpretation of this as including a new "friend"; and his interpretation of this being that I "wanted him bad". He stated that he didn't respond to conversation regularly because he was "making me wait for it" and also added that obviously we had two very different ideas of what was "going on here." Astounded, I said, "so what exactly is going on here?" T.Vickery's responds with a question that goes something like, "well, what do you expect, you know? I mean, a girl like you wearing a dress like that?" I repeat back to him for my own understanding that he believes that he has been included in our social activity because I want to sleep with him, and my wearing of a dress (might I add it was about a million degrees out with a million percent humidity) basically means I am ripe for the taking, or ripe for the raping. T.Vickery's thinks it's ridiculous that I would think anything else of our interaction. He charmingly adds that he thinks it's adorable how cute and naive I am. I wish him a good night and step away. Unbelievable. Just un-be-lieve-able. Good night.