|Edgartown Lighthouse calls me home.|
I have become expert at the art of Translocation. For those unfamiliar with the term when it does not relate to plant physiology or cellular transportation, I am using it to describe a life style. In particular, it is the manner in which I have divided my time between Martha’s Vineyard and western Massachusetts over the past two years. Before I started the homestead shuffle, It used to be a trip of five hours from door to door. Now, life has wrought changes on my health and stamina. With bus, boat, and cab, it takes me about 24 hours. From Northampton, MA. I take a detour through Providence, RI to visit my daughter. It breaks up the trip for me and gives me time - usually twice each month -- to spend with her. Sometimes, my husband offers me a ride or picks me up from Rhode Island, granting me a lovely two hour car ride with him.
While our new home is being built on Martha’s Vineyard, I have had friends and family extend kindness and their spaces to me. This is an example of generously shared domiciles. On Martha’s Vineyard, I have been a regular visitor at Grandma’s Wizdom, the Oak House, and the Madeiras compound. I have slogged through blizzards, hurricanes, Nor’Easters and weather both fair and mild. I have dealt with mud, dust, piles of sand, lazy skunks and aggressive seagulls who attacked me after I unknowingly spread my towel on someone’s discarded potato chips.
|This seagull pecked my head while I was reading.|
Symptoms of my displacement syndrome arise unexpectedly. Yesterday, I went to the Post Office in western Mass, I was excited to see a brown, box and a magazine bundled for me behind the counter. How did I know they were for me? I saw my box number inscribed in large four inch numerals on the side. I waited expectantly for the Postmaster to hand over my parcels. I could feel my brow wrinkle in consternation when no packages were forthcoming over the counter at the window. Why wasn’t he handing me my package? Suddenly, I realized my mistake. I laughed and told the Postmaster while I had looked so fiercely concerned. The tempting package was labeled with the box number of the box I keep on Martha’s Vineyard, not with the western Mass address. Palm to forehead, BAM.
Cooking is another area that exposes my sense of confusion about where I live and where things are kept. I rush to a cupboard to grab a cutting board, and instead, find bowls. I open the pantry door to the right of the stove looking for glasses, I find spices. I open the cabinet where I keep my Nutritional Medicine Mint Tea and see canned goods, instead. It’s like being so engrossed in a conversation at the dinner table that you reach for your glass of wine without looking. You tilt it back, unconsciously preparing yourself for the acidic tang and cherry-vanilla of the wine you have been drinking all evening, and, instead, swill down milk. It is jarring when things are not as you expect them.
|Owen Park, Oak Bluffs|
|Gazebo, western MA|
|Oak House morning|
|Morning in w. MA|
Along with the generosity of room accommodations, my family and friends have shared the use of their cars. Why, in the past three weeks, I have had use of five cars: my daughter’s, my husband’s cousin’s, my friend’s husband’s, my husband’s and my own. It is all well and good until I go to fill the gas tank. I never know which side to choose. It was my son, a source I would have, heretofore, considered unlikely, that taught me there is a symbol decoding the placement of the gas tank stamped on every car’s gas gauge. There might be an arrow, an icon of a gas pump, maybe even just the way the pump nozzle is pointing on the gauge, but there will be a clue. If only I had known this the 40 plus years I have been driving, I would have avoided a lot of backing up and rearranging pump-side at the gas station!
|Lexus, pump on RIGHT see pump handle|
|Mercedes, pump on Right - little arrow|
I forgive myself all of these small missteps as only a natural outcropping of evolution. They are the honest results of my trying to adjust to an ever-changing environment. The biggest surprise occurred two nights ago. I dosed off while reading a book. I heard the sound of the fog-horn. As I found my way back to consciousness, I reflected that it must be foggy. I did what I always do when I hear the fog-horn, I say a silent prayer for all mariners that they find their way safely home. My eyes were still shut when my phone vibrated, signaling a message. I groped with my left hand, disturbing things on my night stand until I found my glasses. Only when I had my glasses on did I open my eyes. I was absolutely flummoxed. All that time, I believed I was in my little bedroom that my best friend built for me in her house. Instead, somehow, I found myself in my marital master bedroom --120 miles away. As I tried to resolve this discrepancy, the fog horn blasted again. Except, I realized it wasn’t the fog horn, it was a train whistle singing out its' warning from a nearby track.
|Oak Bluffs Fog Horn in Harbor|
|Northampton Train Track in w. MA|
As enormously grateful as I am that I have had friends and family open their doors to me while I live one foot in the water and the other in the mountains, I know the time is growing clear that I need my own space. I spend a good chunk of the day living in the footprint of other people’s lives. It is drawing near time for me to reclaim my own life. To that end, I spent a lot of time compiling an email to the builder, surveyor and attorney who are helping me with the logistics of putting up the Vineyard house. I do not want to lose momentum on that project. What is more important, and very thrilling, is the prospect that I am writing the pages in the next chapter of my life.