Portrait

He stands there, naked. Raw emotions racing behind his eyes. Anger. Fear. Relief. Sadness. Uncertainty. Rolling past again and again. Like the spinning wheel on the Price is Right, where it will finally land, nobody knows. This is not a game to him, though. You can tell by the tightness in his jaw, the slightly bent head, the hands that flex open and close.

Somehow he looks disheveled. Like he's been up all night without sleep, even though only a couple of hours have passed. His shirt is un-tucked, he's got stubble along his face, and his skin looks dull. He seems shorter than his usual six feet and as though he's lost weight. Is it the stoop of his shoulders that makes me think this?

He looks so alone. I want to be there for him. I hope he lets me into his abyss so that I can help him find his way out. He drops the papers in his lap and shakes his head. Mutters to himself. Picks up the papers and reads through them again. His past and his future are in his hands.

Terminated

I really feel for him. It can't be easy to be 'let go' or as his company says 'terminated.' Like death. He mourns yet is relieved. He's unsure yet hopeful. I think of it as a rebirth - he shouldn't have been in that toxic environment anyway. I honestly don't know how he lasted as long as he did. How did he endure the silence, the glares, the mocking tones, the dismissive comments? I hurt for him. Now I feel free and I can only hope he will soon feel that way too.

I worry about him. I need to be strong for him and positive and understand - not my strong suits most days. But now I know he needs me to be that for him. So I step up. He has a tendency to let these things bother him to the core. Shakes his confidence and his positive outlook. In those times, it's like he has no self-esteem. That's when I hug him tight, whisper "I love you", kiss his neck, crack a lame joke to try to make him smile, and say "you are talented and caring and you deserve better. We will be okay. You will be okay."

He keeps holding off telling his parents. Worried they will worry. I tell him that these are the things they want to know...he doesn't need to protect them...they will want to support him. I wonder if the real reason he doesn't want to tell them is that he's ashamed and doesn't want to be a loser in their eyes. No matter what I tell him, though, he can't shake that feeling. He hasn't said it out loud but we've been together for so long (14 years, wow!) that I see it in the hunch of his shoulders and the bare pain deep in his eyes. He doesn't yet understand there's nothing to be ashamed of. We just all want to show him love and strength and support so he gets through this unscathed.

It's his company that should be ashamed! What pricks. What assholes! That whole culture is so evil, so insidious, like cancer. It might not show up right away with any obvious signs, but it does it's damage day after day, where finally the body breaks down and shouts at you that something is wrong. I felt this for him, felt the cancer pounding on the door. It was just a matter of time.

In truth, though, I am ecstatic for him and for us. They are now essentially paying him to look for a new job. In the end, we have the last laugh. You bastards!

Travel

I'm sitting on a blue camping chair out on my front driveway, a promise to my husband to keep him company while he sands and scrapes and fills and paints and sands and paints again in order to get our behemoth of an SUV sold. Normally I'm shut up inside my house as he works, utterly uninterested in what he's doing. What do I know about cars anyway? But today is different. No, it's not our anniversary nor a birthday. I suppose it's something more than that or less than that depending on how you look at it. It's part of a realization that's been awakened in me. There's a reason I feel disconnected and alone and distant. I'm the reason. If I want love and friendship, well, I need to give it. I need to show up and experience the day. So that's what I'm doing here. Now.

Blue Rodeo is playing in the background and so is the breeze, a motorcycle, an airplane, a sander. The sun listens in, I can feel it's company on the back of my neck. This writing class I'm taking...I think is helping to open something up inside me. Awareness? I think so. Slowly.

I read Iver's thoughts on travel and I think, wow, he gets it! He captured the 'why' of my obsession and longing for travel - the 'why' I could never quite articulate. It's true, I travel to lose myself AND to find myself. I think it's also to find purpose in my life. Being part of the godless minority, I struggle to find meaning and purpose in my here and my then. When I travel I catch glimpses of it: time stands still, possibilities are endless, the air smells new, the earth feels connected, new buildings mixed with the old, art mixed with architecture, cobblestones with concrete. Our past, our present, our future all intersect.

Normally I get lost in the details of the day: get up, pee, shower, brush my teeth, get dressed, drive to work, grab a coffee, log in to my computer, check email, work and more work, take the GoBus home, throw my keys on the table, make dinner, watch tv. It's all routine with not much change in between.

When I travel, though, the day is my own. I can wake up when I want and then wander and explore all day long. I like to feel the location and the newness deep in my bones. I envy writers who can take that feeling and put it to paper. I wonder if in taking this class I can somehow learn to do that too. I wonder, is it a learned craft? Do I have a shot at it? Or, is it one of those 'you either have it or you don't' type of gifts?

Iver also writes that we travel to "open our hearts and eyes and learn more about the world." I wonder why I want to learn so much about the world. Why we *should* all want to learn about it. I think it's to expose our global humanity. To break down the 'them versus us' barriers. To understand the shared experience.