Nothing

I am home from the writing trip. My return trip was harrowing. The weather in South Dakota is no joke. It snows–not deep, but the wind makes it drift. The wind pretty much makes everything worse. Fifteen degrees feels like minus a million below and the ice is a super weapon lying underneath the snow waiting silently for victims. I am not sure why the weather in South Dakota has not been on a list of America’s Most Dangerous. I loved the blowing snow when I was sitting in front of a cozy fireplace, when I tried to come home yesterday, not so much.

I wanted an early start, but backing out of a steep driveway with other cars parked haphazardly was my first mistake. The ice was so severe that my rented Jeep slid off the driveway into an embankment. Maybe if the area had been clear, it would have been easier to extract myself, but I landed inches from the electrical box, sewer clean out and rebar posts marking these spots. I got out to take a look and I fell hard on the ice, jarring my elbow, hip and head on the ground. I really did think my elbow was broken.

When the AAA driver got there, I could see him calculating the angles and the driveway before he even got out of the truck. He had chains for his boots. It took him a while to get my car off the embankment. He’d inch it and then check to see how close he was to all the electric/sewer boxes. He told me “this driveway is sheer ice,” so he landed the car in a safe spot for me. Two hours later than I wanted to leave, I was on my way.

My second mistake was that I took the shortest route back to home. Highway 85 goes through the beautiful Black Hills, over a mountain pass, except in the snow, it’s basically just a ribbon of ice. I had already fallen off one mountain, so I crawled along that highway for quite some time. I’d skipped breakfast, but had an unshelled boiled egg in my pocket. When I fell, the egg smashed, so it was in my pocket, the smell did not really mix with my headache, so when I reached civilization, I threw away the egg, aired out the car and got some food. I figured if I did have a concussion it was mild and I’d probably just be told to rest and I was sitting in the car, that’s kind of resting and I wanted to get home and watch at least one playoff game with my son, so I kept driving.

I had a lot to think about. First off, writing classes, writing retreats, and other writing communities might not be that helpful for me at this point. I know how to write; I just need to do it. Second of all, I realized in ten years, I have lost my parents, two dogs, a cat, my sister, my right breast, and my son to schizophrenia. He is still here, just the potential of his funny, bright, creative nature has changed. And my daughter. I can’t even write about how painful her silence is. The sky might be endless, but I am not sure about the capacity for human grief. I think I might be there. I don’t want to write about these things anymore. Ignoring them won’t make them go away, but not giving them anymore ink might take some of their power away.

The roadtrip and leaning into my voice really made me realize the freedom that I have given myself. It’s just as easy to acknowledge the good, the joy, the beauty in things. I made it home safely. I have nothing to do today, nothing to plan for, nothing to worry about. Nothing feels pretty damn amazing. So I am leaning into pretty damn amazing.