When I left San Francisco for monastery #1, my fingernails bled from shoving things down into boxes. There was so much stuff to deal with that it was really only by getting slightly soused on some mysterious woody Lithuanian liquor that Hikari and I were able to make the final push--getting everything packed away and cleaning up.
When I left monastery #2, I filled trashcan after trashcan with crap I'd accumulated: empty yogurt containers, pieces of tissue paper, and plastic grocery bags. Even when you have nothing, the urge to accumulate persists. I was like a homeless person with a shopping cart filled with little bits of useless junk.
And now...
On Friday I was at work, having spent the previous day packing 85% of my stuff away. (On schedule, in other words. Although you know the last 15% is the hardest, and the last 5% is harder still.)
Within the span of thirty minutes I went from a happy person helping customers on a warm summer morning to a wretched, fainting, vomiting wreck. A long-lost medical monster from my past, dysmenorrhea, was back. The hardest thing is the waves of pain: it's actually uterine contractions.
The county health clinic said they could see me tomorrow. I left a message with the director, got in a cab and went there anyway. I said I had no problem sitting in the waiting room until they could see me. They saw me.
By the time I saw the nurse practitioner, I was feeling better. Exhausted. But the contractions and my period had abruptly stopped.
The unparalleled joy of not being in great pain was
so
deliciously
wonderful.
I didn't fill the prescription for painkillers. I went home and slept.
I woke up sore all over, and with a big day ahead. The plan was to load almost all my boxes into Abby's car, drive to Portland, sign some paperwork, and begin moving in to the new apartment. And to eat enormous sushi at that place in Moreland afterward, if all went well.
It didn't.
The car had been more tempermental than I remembered, and it started really giving me trouble: not accelerating reliably; dying at lights; and putt-putting on the open road, as though the engine was misfiring. Not a good time to get on I-5.
I pulled over into the only sign of civilization: a big-box hardware store in outermost Keizer.
I was suddenly grateful that I looked like a cute girl, because I know diddly about cars. On a good day, I can check the oil, but I wouldn't know where to put new oil.
A nice guy, Travis, helped me check the oil. No prob there. I tried to start the car, and it was dead; not even a whirring ignition. I went back inside and the floor manger, Max, diagnosed a fuel system problem, and set me up with a phone book.
I called around and got moral support and automotive insight (from a few friends); and a picture of what not to expect on a weekend (from a few mechanics).
The tow truck driver was a fellow my age who from that parallel universe in which beer and fishing and big trucks are taken for granted as basic aspects of life. With all that, we had a peaceful and companionable drive back to Corvallis. He was from Albany originally, and was hoping to pick up some buffalo meat from the place on Hwy 34 on the way back to Keizer. I felt--or I though I could feel--his mind move when a hybrid car with a "saving the earth" vanity plate passed; and again when a dusty old Mercedes wagon "Powered by Used Veggie Oil" overtook us. Or I was projecting; sometimes you don't know where the thought comes from.
Culture wars are all well and good: but I was helped over and over by burly white guys on this day. Human to human. And if my tow truck driver has just bought a new Jeep Grand Cherokee, well..may it benefit all beings, somehow. I was pretty delerious--mostly dehyrdrated--or I would have chuckled when we parted and he told me his name: Darrell. (It's a secret, guilty favorite of mine.)
So my stuff sits defenseless in the parking lot of an auto repair shop. Corvallis is a sweet and tiny town, but that's no guarantee this won't get ripped off. I worried. My head wouldn't stop hurting. I sat zazen on the front porch, watching the light fade, and went to bed.
I woke up this morning to find I'd left the front door unlocked; it had blown open in the night, and my wallet, camera, phone and keys were all sitting undisturbed, in plain sight just inside. Oh me of little faith! To have two major setbacks in two days, to be left really dependent on others' kindness, over and over... How could I possibly worry? I have no control at all; why should moving be easy this time? I can only do my best, keep going forward, and marvel at this life.
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