I’m sitting in the back of an Uber on my way to the airport. My roommate couldn’t take me and I didn’t ask any other friend because the timing is inconvenient for those living the normal workforce life. Truthfully, the thought of explaining that I am, yet again, catching a plane for work felt like too much effort. “Have fun gallivanting across the country,” a friend had texted me earlier. Gallivanting? Is that what we’re calling it? Sure. The best part about work trips is that I can go during the week, be back on the weekend, and no one is the wiser. This is a story I like telling.
The Uber driver is having a hard day. He’s frustrated, like me. The traffic is thick, accidents threaten everywhere and the pent up road rage splits the second he pulls into a free lane. The tunnels that lead to the airport always feel like we’re in outer space. When I drive them myself, I like to imagine that when I squint my eyes a little the blur looks like we jump to light speed in Star Wars — but today it scares me.
To distract myself from the sick feeling growing in my stomach, I clicked my phone on and read a newsletter from a college acquaintance. He recently moved to Chicago and writes short missives about art and life. I read about the soulless photoshoots he’s taking on for the money, his nostalgia over childhood music, and the self-loathing and fear of not knowing where the next gig is coming from. His words cut deep with relatability and I thought about the pile of half-finished substacks sitting in drafts which express similar thoughts.
At the airport, I felt a stab of pain in my rib cage, and then it clicks. I know why the Uber ride was unsettling. It surfaced some phantom feelings of The Car Crash of 2018. The crash that could have killed me and my friends — the firefighters kept asking if we were sure we didn’t want to go to the hospital as we crawled out of a totaled car stepping over bent metal and broken glass. We were fortunate, and I walked away with only a bad concussion and a cracked rib discovered a few days later at a hospital.
I give my little rib a pat and take a deep breath. I am reminded, through the harrowing journey to the airpot, that God still has more work for me to do and more life for me to enjoy. This life is His and mine.
The memory goes as quickly as it comes, but the droning thoughts in my head are relentless today, how to break from this funk? I fidget in the security line. I’ve been avoiding calls from my dad all week. I told him I’ve been swamped which starts a spiral of thoughts about how to be friends with my parents — how to be intentional and set boundaries and also pursue their good and honor them best I can. I’m not good at this. It’s a two-way street with parents.
My dad loves knowing all the details about any flight I’m ever on. He’ll track me through the night if I’m changing time zones (says its something to do if he can’t sleep). He’ll randomly research different destination highlights and text me places to see or things to try even if I have no time for sightseeing.
“It’s a 6 hour flight,” I told him on the phone at the gate.
“Six hours?” He said, “Why aren’t you going to Amsterdam instead? You’re going in the wrong direction.”
He then tells me about a last minute trip to Poland he’s taking and I find myself amused. I guess you could say an excitement for seeing the world is part of my genetic inheritance.
He hangs up. We don’t have long phone calls, he’s not a phone-person.
Sitting at my gate I see a man with a book on his lap. I peered for a look at the title —The Fellowship of the Ring. Nice. Across the way is another man with a MARVEL t-shirt on. There are some Mennonites boarding in front of me. They are so nice. What is happening?
It’s been less than an hour and I feel like I’ve lived, died, and resurrected a whole thought-life. It’s brain-glitching. The thoughts just come, unbidden, and need to be washed, set, and hung out to dry. Some people would say I just need sleep, but I had plenty of sleep last night. I need creative rest. I think about David Whyte’s quote a lot: “The antidote to exhaustion is not rest. It is wholeheartedness.”1
I’m always grateful for this traveling-chapter of my life and the freedom that comes with it (and the overbearing sense of responsibility I take everywhere with me) but I’m thinking about getting a photo studio, you know? And what it would look like to make it to small group every Friday night for several weeks in a row? What do placemaking and wholeheartedness have in common?
A year ago, I inquired about a Braintree St. photo studio space and toured it. It was out of my budget, but a remarkable space. A perfect space. I convinced myself that the amount of traveling and other on location work I do wouldn’t make the cost-per-use worth it. So I let it slip by, squelching a small dream. Dreams don’t really die though, do they?2 They’re held in suspension. This particular dream has experienced substantial growth in the last year, so the other week I emailed Pat and asked — “Is Suite 318 still available?”
“No, and the whole building is being demolished,” she wrote back. “Good luck with your search.”
The search continues.
The definition of wholeheartedness is: completely and sincerely devoted, determined, or enthusiastic, marked by complete earnest commitment, free from all reserve or hesitation. :)
I actually think some dreams do die and it’s a good thing — but oftentimes dreams are just about the order they happen in. Never entirely lost.
I loved reading this. Thanks for bringing me along the Uber ride. Also it’s so sweet that your dad tracks you.
I so appreciate your realness, your rawness, and the beauty you imbue even the dissonant pain with! Thank you for sharing.