And Now We’re Here

Years ago, before my youngest son hit double digits, he had a particularly profound realization about time. The exact scenario eludes both of us all these years later, but here’s the gist. He was thinking back to another time, a past event, and it seemed both a lifetime away yet also just moments ago. He looked up at me and said, “And now we’re here.” That itty-bitty adorable little towhead had just wrapped his innocent brain around the weighty idea that life can quite simply flash before your very eyes. The awareness that days may trudge along in never-ending dreadful miserableness, or better yet—sublime bliss, but eventually you’ll be on the other side and it will seem like no time at all has passed. And before you know it, in a blink of an eye, that tiny toddler will be twenty.

Which of course means I’ve aged a wee bit too, and yeah, now I’m here. And lately I’ve been struggling with what here means for me at this moment in the grand scheme of life because damn near every aspect of mine has been turned upside down and inside out. Most days I’m not sure which way is up, and I sure as shit don’t have a clue which way is forward.

So where exactly is here right now, and how the hell did I get here?

Two years ago I went back to college. I’ve busted my brain trying to become a computer nerd and often had no idea what the hell I’d gotten myself into, much less how I was going to survive it. But, now I’m here. Two years later, only two semesters away from my goal, and not only do I have a dadgum 4.0, I can occasionally have intelligent conversations about things like weighted sum overlays, orthorectification, and LiDAR point clouds. Even still, with the end so close, it often feels entirely out of reach.

Six and a half years ago I met a long haired, guitar playing, self-professed loner in a bar. What ensued was both feast and famine, passionate and empty, adventurous and monotonous. I ran the gamut from satisfied to starved. The good made up for the bad, until it didn’t. I tried to leave multiple times. I was shriveling up inside. But then I beat myself up for not being able to survive on crumbs, for not being adapted to desert life, for needing more than the occasional feasts and floods. I thought it was a life worth starving for. So I kept going back. I kept hoping it would live up to the dream I had for it. For what I believed we could be. Despite the undeniable love, we found ourselves at stalemate after stalemate, beating dead horses until there was nothing left to beat. And now I’m here. Alone, picking up the pieces, seeking the silver lining, straining to learn the lessons, desperately trying not to slip deep into the treacherous trap of what ifs.

Nine months ago I flew across the country to quarantine with a complete stranger more than half my age so I could intern with a group of other twenty-somethings travelling around the country collecting geospatial data for the US Army Corps of Engineers, all while living together as a pod under strict COVID regulations. I gave up my freedom and occasionally thought my mind was next. One more kitchen sink filled with somebody else’s beans and rice, or bathtub drain clogged with somebody else’s hair, and I might have gone apeshit. But now I’m here. Just like that it’s over, and damnit if I don’t miss all those guys, occasional repulsive living habits and all. I had another internship lined up for afterwards, but re-entry after being gone for so long was seriously harder than I expected and I simply didn’t have the headspace to engage in it, so I quit it the week I got home. I also had a job offer in Nevada that sounded awesome in every aspect, except the $10/hour part, and I was seconds away from saying yes when my sister finally got it thru my thick skull that “food stamps are not a job perk.” So, I’m back home, unemployed aside from a few freelance floral gigs coming up, and pretty damn daunted by what’s next.

Five years ago I sold a few decades worth of crap, bought a 5^th wheel travel trailer, parked it at a local RV park, and hung my hat. I’d moved every year for the previous five years and was sick of paying exorbitant rent and the endless treadmill of packing and unpacking. It was the best decision ever. I don’t have much, but what I have is mine. I’m not in over my head with some suffocating mortgage, nor am I paying rent to someone else so they can pay theirs. And in theory, if I get tired of my surroundings, I can haul my little home somewhere else.

Two years ago an animal shelter went in next door. It’s no secret that I’m not a fan of dogs, and now I have dozens of them barking incessantly less than 100 yards from my RV. I’ve complained to no avail. I’ve cooked up evil plots that I am afraid to say out loud, but fortunately also not sick enough to enact. At this point you might be thinking to yourself something along the lines of what my ex-husband said to me while I was venting about the horrific situation I have found myself in, “Isn’t your house on wheels?” Now, there’s the kicker. My house on wheels has not moved once since I parked it here more than half a decade ago. At the time I had a Kia Soul, and now I have a Subaru Crosstrek. Neither is quite up to the task of hauling a 29’ 5^th wheel. I have friends who could move it, and my recent ex had a truck that could move it. But that kinda defeats the purpose of having an RV, doesn’t it? I want to be free to go where I want to go, when I want to go. And I’m not interested in buying a big ass truck to go with my RV, nor do I care to find another boyfriend with one. So, as much as I love my kitchen island and ample closet space, I am ready to part with this RV and get a Class B or C that I can drive, and it can haul my Crosstrek. But that comes with a whole swarm of worries – not the least of which is another engine to maintain. Oh, and the fact that the largest thing I’ve even driven is a 15-passenger van, and I’ve sure as shit never towed anything. And then there’s the really scary possibility that this one could sell and I might not actually find a replacement that I can afford anytime soon. Luckily I’m really good at living out of a suitcase.

Twenty-two years ago I became a mom. Two years later I upped the ante did it again. Over the years we moved here and there, all within a fifteen-mile radius from where they were born. The oldest moved about forty-five minutes away for a brief stint at college, but we’re all close-by once again. They are adults, free to spread their wings and fly away. I’m in a place where I’m ready to pursue new adventures and a new career. I got a taste of being gone this year, nearly nine months away. I missed the hell out of them, but I honestly think that the distance forced us to be even more connected. It made the time together more significant. Now, that could just be me spouting bullshit excuses to justify the fact that I am itching to get the fuck outta Texas, or it could actually be true. Either way, now I’m here, faced with an empty nest, ready to spread my own wings, but feeling guilty about leaving my very grown-up babies behind.

So there ya have it. In this moment I’m:

~ A student pretty damn close to the finish line (but still miles away).

~ A newly single woman pushing fifty (relieved to do whatever the hell I want to, including eating just guacamole for breakfast, yet terrified at the idea of growing old alone).

~ An unemployed floral designer on her way to becoming a GIS Professional (but wants nothing to do with the former, and isn’t really ready for the latter just yet).

~ A full-time-but-in-one-place RVer (possibly on the brink of being voluntarily homeless). *Update: I enlisted a dear friend to move me and I’m now at a badass RV park just down the road, far away from the canine cacophony, with a killer view, and my home didn’t fall apart after sitting idle for 6 years! WIN!!

~ And a mom (whose kids have mostly flown the nest but are still fluttering comfortingly close by) flirting with getting the hell outta Dodge.

To say I feel overwhelmed seems like a gross understatement. Incapacitated by uncertainty is a bit closer to the mark. As painful as all this limbo and restructuring is, I know that before I know it, I will be standing somewhere unknown to me now, doing something I can’t even fathom in my current reality, and I will look back and say to myself, “and now I’m here.” Which of course is to say, “Eloise, SLOW THE FUCK DOWN.” Savor it. Dive into the darkness. Feel it. Know that while it may feel like there is no way forward, life is in motion and I’m moving right along with it, like it or not. Resist the urge to commit unspeakable atrocities at the godforsaken animal shelter next door. Take the time to, oh, I don’t know, actually write something for the first time in god knows how long. And yeah, as a previous coworker often reminded me, “How do you eat an elephant? One bite at a time.” So pull up a chair, pour a drink, grab a fork, and dig in cuz, now we’re here. Cheers!