While wandering the Internet I came across a blog called The Happiness Project by Gretchen Rubin, that explores various methods and ideas people have come up with to make themselves happier. A friend said one of his rules is to “Control your exit.” He explained, “It means, always be able to leave when you want.” The downside of this rule is that you would never have people over, in case they turn out to be the type who don't know when they've outstayed their welcome. You would always drive yourself to any event, in case you want to leave early. You'd never go on a boat trip or a bus tour where you'd feel trapped and unable to bail out. What if the Vikings, or Amerigo Vespucci or Columbus had followed this rule?
Gretchen doesn't completely agree with this philosophy, and neither do I. Carried to its logical extreme, a person would never have the opportunity to get lost, find her way back and see new sights along the way. Her days would be more or less copies of each other, with the same loss of quality that results when you make a copy of a copy of a copy. Anything unexpected would lead to great discomfort.
Lately my days have been photocopies for the most part, which is why I was lured to The Happiness Project. The title of this blog is somewhat offputting; you expect it to be all butterflies and daisies, cartoon characters and silly sayings. But in fact, most of it makes perfect sense.
Gretchen suggests that sometimes, “not controlling your exit would lead to happiness. There’s a lot of happiness to be gained from spontaneity, impulse adventures, and unpredictable undertakings.” That's the kind I'm looking for: unpredictable undertakings that lead me to new places, doing things I've never done before. My mind is hungry for the unknown. I'm not sure whether this means a geographic change, or a mental one, but probably both.
So far what I've envisioned is a road trip that would take me, eventually, to see my mother and sister in Oklahoma, but would meander through New Mexico and Texas in the process, making it quite a long expedition. A month, at least. The fear that comes to mind when I try to picture myself doing this alone takes my breath away, but when I look beyond the intimidation I feel an almost irresistible attraction to the idea.
A compatible road buddy would make it a much more interesting and enjoyable trip. Someone with lots of stories to tell, but interested in my stories, too. Someone willing to navigate, stop here and there when we see something interesting, or when I want to take a photo or read a historical plaque or buy cherries from a roadside stand. Someone willing to take his time and not get irritated by city driving. And if that someone were willing to sing with me now and then, that would be heaven. But I will have to fill that someone's role myself. I will have to tell myself stories, navigate, sing to myself, make my own decisions about stopping here or there. It may take a few days, a few scares and a few wrong turns but eventually I might like being alone on the road.
Just once I'd like to travel without a strict ETA. I know my sister, who'd be waiting for me at my destination, would not be happy not knowing when I'd arrive, especially since her plans depend on when I'd get there. But maybe there's a way to work that out with her. Leave early, don't let her know I'm on my way until I'm almost there.
My mother, a control freak all her life, now has Alzheimer's, and never gets to control her exits. She doesn't know where she is most of the time. When she leaves her room and starts down the hall, she wanders into other rooms, talks to the other patients whether she knows them or not, because she doesn't remember whether she knows them. When it's time to go to the dining hall, she has to be steered in the right direction. But she seems happier than she used to be, when everything in her life had to be predictable.
Once I was not so preoccupied with planning every outcome. When I was in my mid-twenties I left San Francisco with my girlfriend Sandy in a pink and white Studebaker to travel down the California coast, across the southwest, down into Mexico and back into Texas, and eventually through the South, up the Eastern Seaboard, and back through Canada, funding our journey with temp work. Along the way we lost the Studebaker and gained another girlfriend, Helen, a dedicated wanderer from Scotland. I made it as far as Texas where, sick with a bad cold and Montezuma's Revenge, tired and broke, I succumbed to my mother's entreaties to go back home, get a steady job and anchor myself in a less volatile way of life. Sandy and Helen completed the trip, and it completely changed Sandy's life: she later married one of the guys we met in Mexico, a photography student on a field trip.
It seems to me that I have wasted a great deal of time trying to control my exits and entrances as well. I've been trying to write the script while some part of me is crying for improvisation. Maybe if I allow that inner gypsy some freedom, indulge her wanderlust a little, she will take me through the daunting veil of terror into new discoveries of what's out there, and what's in me.