Wanderlust and Creation

Growing up, I was never taken aside and explicitly told "Leann, you are only good for getting married, cleaning your husband's house and having his babies." However, that's the lesson I learned. In subtle ways, I was taught not to have dreams, not to aim too high. For instance, the only job ever pointed out to me as being suitable was a teacher because when my children were out of school, I would be off work. But I was a daydreamer . . .

I knew I wanted more than my mother's life, but I had no idea what that meant for me. I just wanted "something different." I knew I had one way out of New Kent County. That way was college. From the age of 12, I worked hard in school. At age 17, I was accepted early into the school of my choice. I went off to college thinking I would marry my high school sweetheart when I was finished with my teaching degree. I moved into a shoebox with a sink and bunk beds and an ultra-conservative boxmate. I met new people who had lived in different places with completely different lives. They would tell me stories, and I realized I wanted to see through their eyes. I realized there was such a thing as ultra-conservative.

I moved out of my shoebox and into a lovely little townhouse with another ultra-conservative whose Daddy "knew people" in Washington. Here, I experienced my first heartbreak and began to rethinking whether I was really meant to teach. I continued meeting new people. I learned there was a difference between interesting people and boring people. College itself kept me wide-eyed. The classes that were offered where amazing to my naive soul. Kerouac was open to me. History wasn't taught from a purely Southern view point. Medieval lit taught through the eyes of a tiny Jewish man. West African history taught by the daughter of Chinua Achebe. Professor Chris who said my writing would take me places. Professor Jerry who said my designs were shit, but I would make a great stage manager or Artistic Director.

To fund all of my self-discovery, I waited tables. I flirted with married men. Thinking they still had what it took to make a cute little co-ed flirt with them in front of their wives, they would tip me amounts that made their wives give me dirty looks. I would have rent and all of my bills paid in less than a week, so I could put up with a few nasty looks. The rest of the month's money was mine to blow on caffeine, nicotine and fuel for my car.

Classes were thrown aside in preference for wandering. It was nothing to take a pause from my drafting project for a smoke break, and suddenly be in my car watching the sun come up over the mountains 4 hours later, my project completely forgotten on the drafting table. Trips to the beach at 2am because I need to write, to think, to scream, were common. Most often, I would get in my car, pick a road, and see where it took me. I would live in my daydreams, especially in the summers after it rained, driving in the middle of nowhere with my windows down. I would drive just to breathe. To try to calm my heart. To keep from choking on something I couldn't name. Random trips to East Coast cities to which I'd never been would be taken at a moment's notice. Put too much on the card? No problem. There's an extra shift to pick up when we get back, with more married men who will tip far too much. Everything is wonderful!

While I never expected to be able to fly by the seat of my pants forever, I never thought about having to settle down. That moment in life was the only moment in life. It was the only time I really lived in my present moment, and it was freeing and beautiful. It came to a halt when I married a boy who promised me the world. We had plans for an Australian honeymoon, a move to the American Army base in Italy, travel to Greece. Instead, I only saw Fayetteville, North Carolina. The one time we moved was to Fort Lee, an hour away from where we had both grown up. The only reason for that move was because he was on trial as an accomplice to assault on a civilian. I watched his drinking. I watched his drug use. I watched the other women. I drove. Nineteen years old, hugely pregnant with our first baby, humiliated, and I could only drive around the base. He was looking at a dishonorable, and I began to forget the places I'd wanted to see and the things I wanted to do. My reality, my life, was less than that. Who would care if I had great stories? Who would share my experience? Who would care whether I fell in love with a particular rock formation or the color of the sunlight in another place or the way a local dialect sounded? No one. I had to settle down. I was told dreams were not for parents. I had my time, and now it was gone. I was only good for the baby I was carrying.

My husband was discharged other than honorably. My baby was born. His mother instructed us that we were not to move away from her because she would not allow her grandbaby to leave her. Never was he referred to as my son. Never did anyone assume I had control of his little life or that I wanted more for him. My husband only told me I was ridiculous and took his mother's side. I was going crazy, and I couldn't drive.

After I left my husband, I was offered a place on the island of Maui. My friend there wrote a letter that I cherish to this day. He reminded me of the beauty of my spirit. He told me my energy matched that of Maui's and the island would welcome me. As soon as the plane touched down, I felt an energy I'd never felt before. I felt peaceful after years of pain. It was the closest feeling to "home" I've ever felt. I've never felt more beautiful than I did while on that island. One evening, I went alone to Paia Beach. I sat listening to the ocean, writing by the fading light, and looked up to see the last golden beam fall over the mountains. In that moment, I knew for a fact that god exists. In whatever form he chooses to take, he's there. He created this universe.

Tonight, feeling the need to drive and being unable to leave my children and being unwilling to let them intrude on my sacred space, I think about how I used to run relatively free. I think about the path that lead me to sit in my apartment in Rhode Island feeling the need to fly. I think how I never finished what I set out to do. I still haven't been to Brazil, Spain, Italy, Edinburgh, London. I've never been to Maine, never mind out of this country. The world has so many beautiful things to offer. I want to see, smell, feel all the magic I possibly can. I grew a universe in my belly. That universe means everything to me. I would sacrifice anything to keep that world safe. At the same time, it has trapped me. I want to see god again. I'd like to ask him if he feels the same. I'd like to know if god can no longer freely wander because of his children. Somehow I think that one golden beam over the water to the mountain was a promise to me that I would be free to drive again one day. It's amazing to me how the universe provides what you need exactly when you need it, just as a parent to a child.