They say whatever doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. Or really irritates the hell out of you. Or totally fucks you up. Something like that. Go listen to that “Boy named Sue” song by Johnny Cash and let me know which it is, because I honestly can’t tell. Whatever the case, experience makes us who we are and we couldn’t be where we are now if we hadn’t have gone through whatever came before. I was watching my new favorite philosophical font of profound wisdom, aka Scrubs, the other day and Carla was telling Turk that she didn’t regret anything that had come before, because it all ultimately led her to him. Wherever it is we’re headed, we have to get there somehow.

So, I was listening to Johnny Cash singing about being named Sue and how it made him strong and independent (or possibly bitter, alone, and mean, depending on your point of view), and I was thinking about my own fucked-up childhood, during which I moved approximately every three minutes. Just when I would start to finally relax, it was time to uproot everything I knew again and head off somewhere unknown and start all over. People move all the time; kids survive. And I did survive just fine, but moving 16+ times by the time one graduates from high school is possibly a little excessive.

It didn’t help that I was really shy. I have finally stopped classifying myself as a shy person and now, only in the last few years, think of myself as formerly shy. It’s hard self-identification to give up when it’s so ingrained in you for so long. So, here I was, this horribly shy, awkward, insecure person, too scared to talk for fear everyone would think I was an idiot and make fun of me, and I had to face a new town, a new school, and entirely new group of kids who had known each other for years, already had their cliques and friends. And I had to do this over and over again. And when I would finally, finally, work through my fear and anxiety and fight my way to making friends and figuring things out, and was just feeling comfortable and settling in to this whole new life, it was time to move again. When I think back to my childhood, I remember a lot of of first day terror and a lot of crying in back seats of cars, driving away.

So, that sucked. But like everything else in life, all of that did in fact make me who I am. For one thing, I guess I’m over the shy thing. I can walk right into a room full of strangers and talk to anyone. There’s nothing to fear in talking to people. They’re just people. It’s just talking. What’s the worst that can happen? That they don’t like me? I don’t even know them, so who cares.

And change doesn’t bother me a bit either. Moving? Changing jobs? Sure! When I get reviews at work, I’m always told about how adaptable and flexible I am. I know that it’s meant to be a compliment, but being adaptable and flexible is the only way I know to be.

Change is like an old friend to me. But instability and lack of control are old enemies. I don’t mind moving on to something else, I just want to know what that something else is. Lack of control is especially difficult. It’s odd, isn’t it? Going through lots of change made me not mind change at all. Not having control made me crave it.

I guess I also have trouble getting too comfortable. It’s hard for me to think of anything as permanent, to count on anything, to believe that anything’s stable. I think of every job I have as temporary, not matter how passionately I throw myself into it. And it’s hard for me to lean on anyone, to rely on anything other than myself. I always fear that once I get too comfortable, believe anything or anyone will be around tomorrow, it will all be taken away in a moment. Better not to count on anything than to be horribly disappointed and let down.

I mostly don’t let anyone get too close, don’t open up to people, and maybe that’s also because of all those times when I finally would make friends, only to move across the country and never see them again. Acquaintances? Sure. Real friends? Too risky.

I pride myself on handling stress well, on being strong, on getting through anything. That also may be in part because I felt so weak when I was growing up. As a kid, you always dream about how things will be different when you’re all grown up. I dreamt about having strength and being in control of my life.

The truth, of course, is that we can’t always be strong, we can’t always be in control. Sometimes life is in limbo and what we really need most is patience. And a little faith and trust. And maybe even a little bit of letting yourself lean on someone else and allowing them to be there for you. And believing that it’s OK to relax and trust that they’ll still be there for you tomorrow. To take the risk.

So, I sit here facing life in flux. And every inch of me is fighting it. This is the space between the changes, and there’s little control here. I know I have to let it all go, to let life be in flux, to live day to day and not worry so much about this space in between. Lack of control may never be an old friend to me, but maybe it can at least be a comfortable acquaintance. I’m working on it. With a little help and a little faith.

I wanted to write a profound poem about a lone standing tree on a windy day or a safe harbor in a stormy sea. I wanted to be poetic and meaningful, to find strength in the words, to shine a light in the dark. But I have no poetry; nothing beautiful. And I don’t feel strong or capable or grown up.

When even writing fails me, I’ll just keep moving forward as best I can.

I was telling someone today that I’ve gotten very good at typing on my blackberry while driving, and better still at typing on it while walking (generally through airports). I was explaining that what it takes is just the right mix of glancing at the phone while looking where you’re going and ideally avoiding running into large objects (or small ones, for that matter).

I’ve had extensive training in the art of balancing the forward and downward glance while moving forward.

As a kid, I read a lot. No, I mean lot. More than that. Keep going. A little more. Now double it. I would leave the library with stacks of books taller than I was. We always lived in small towns, and they only had so many books. I would read through everything at my age level at the library. And at school. And then I’d be out of books, so I’d start reading what was at the next age level. And the next. I read those Judy Blume books way too early.

I devoured books. Read them every possible moment I could. When my parents said lights out, I would strain my eyes and read by moonlight. I had no idle seconds, only book-reading seconds. Which is how I learned the talents that serve me so well now with my blackberry. Walking between my room and the dining room? Why waste that time, when I could read a book? Walking to the car before school? Book! I spent my entire childhood glancing from my book just long enough to make sure I wasn’t walking off of a cliff.

I generally read a book a day. I didn’t really get the concept of reading just parts of books at any given time. You don’t watch a movie a little at a time every night, right? So why do that with a book? The only drawback to this method of book reading is that good books are over way too fast and you end the night wanting more book, and knowing that there’s no more book to be had.

I read at the dinner table, when everyone else was watching TV, in class when I was waiting for everyone else to finish our assignment. I read at lunch, recess, mornings, evenings, weekends. Just about the only time I didn’t read was when I was in the car. Not for lack of trying, but I just couldn’t get over getting car sick.

I got so used to reading with things going on around me that I won’t even notice if you come up and start talking to me. I get completely sucked into the story and don’t hear or see anything else.

There’s this picture of me that I keep in my paper journal that captures me perfectly. I look at it sometimes when I feel lost and I just don’t know who I am or what I’m doing. In it, I’m maybe nine or ten years old. I’m curled up on the couch with my snoopy stuffed animal that I carried everywhere (and still have). And a book. And I don’t even notice the camera. I look completely at peace.

What’s amazing is that I can tell where the picture was taken. It’s in the travel trailer we lived in after my stepdad decided to once again quit his job. We sold our house and bought this travel trailer with the idea that we would live wherever and not be tied down. In reality, we ended up in a trailer park only a few hours from where we started. In the picture, I’m on the couch that folded out in the bed that my sister and I slept on at night. Some kids complain about not having their own rooms. My sister and I didn’t even have a room during the rambling man years.

My life was anything but peaceful, yet there is this picture, proof that I was, at least while I was reading. I feel the same way when I write. No matter what is going on around me. No matter the complicated thoughts swirling around in my head, I can find a moment of peace in the words.

I look at that picture, and I can feel the peaceful moment. And maybe that’s what I need to remember. Maybe I can’t stop the endless onslaught, the constant barrage. But I can take a moment and find a little peace.

I now have proof, beyond all doubt, that my life doesn’t follow the normal way of things. I had my suspicions, of course, but today I came across evidence just too strong to ignore.

I was trying to get access to one of my 401k accounts and Fidelity made me go through this whole convoluted security process that included picking a picture I liked and naming it and answering three personal questions. I assume the idea is that you may have to answer these questions again at a later time, so you should pick questions that don’t require you to make up answers on the spot. Which is where the trouble started.

Some systems with these special security questions give you the option of making up your own question, and I do great with those. I can easily think up a question that I’ll later remember the answer to. What series of books will I reread every year for the rest of my life to help subdue my panic about death? (The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe) What car of mine do I remember fondly due to its ability to hold as many people as I wanted and its kick ass engine that let me stomp on the gas when the light turned green and dust everyone around me? (65 Ford Falcon) What do I want to do every day for the rest of my life, at least a little, no matter where I am? (Write) And so on.

But no. Fidelity can’t ask me any of these questions or let me suggest them. Instead it offers me choices of questions I can’t possibly answer.

• What city was your mother born in? What city was your father born in? I have no idea what city either of them were born in. I could vague it up and answer LA for either, since I’m pretty sure they were both born in the general Southern California area, but when faced with this question later, will I remember I decided to do that? For that matter, is this question about my biological father or my stepfather? I suppose it doesn’t matter, since I haven’t talked to either of them in about 15 years and don’t plan to call either of them up to ask about their childhoods at this point. And if I call my mom, well, I’d have to talk to her, and there’s just no reason for that. Next question?
• What’s your paternal grandfather’s first name? I was told I met him once, when I was a tiny baby. He killed himself not long after. I’m sure the two events are in no way related, but in any case, I don’t want to dwell. Nor did I ever pry about what his name might have been. Moving on.
• Who was your childhood best friend? Right. This question probably makes perfect sense to those who mostly lived in the same place growing up and had this so-called long term friend. I had lots of micro friends for brief periods of time, in between moves to the next place. I wasn’t friends with anyone long enough to remember their names, all these years later. Any more questions that perhaps would make me feel less loserish?
• When were you married? Where did you honeymoon? Where did you meet your spouse? These are the questions apparently meant to remind me that I’m a divorced loser who will end up a crazy old cat lady. I could answer these questions and remember the answers later, but I’d really rather skip them.
• What city was your high school in? What was your high school mascot? This question would require me to remember which high school I was answering about. Because only those fortunate non-movers went to only one.

I assume that a bank such as Fidelity uses focus groups and research and determined that these were the questions that their user base could easily answer. Fidelity’s customers have stable childhoods, non-crazy parents, and enduring relationships. When someone asks where they went to high school, they don’t have a split second flash where they wonder if it’s best to lie or to just say it’s a long story.

Clearly, I’m with the wrong bank.

I’ve been catching up on TV lately, gobbling up shows I’ve been wanting to watch but haven’t for reasons too whiny to get into. One show I’ve been watching a lot is Scrubs. I have it set to record on the DVR and Comedy Central shows it like four times a day, so I’ve got a marathon waiting for me every time I get home. It’s a pretty good show all around, but the best part about it is the theme song. With the marathon watching sessions, I get to hear it a lot.

I can’t do this all on my own. I’m no superman.

Honestly, I hear that, and every single time I have this sense of relief that just completely floods me. It’s OK to not be able to do everything on your own and it’s OK to admit it. And it’s OK to be human and not perfect. I know it’s just a song and a TV show and that should be the last place I get my validation and I’m reading way too much into that one line, but there it is.

Yesterday I took a barrage of emotional sticks and stones, hurled at me, relentless. And they struck at my insecurities and vulnerabilities and fears, and I flinched and tried to find a way to protect myself but I didn’t even know if I deserved protecting.

I was being graded. And I failed.

• Follows through and succeeds. Needs improvement.
• Puts in the work and doesn’t quit. F.
• Cares about others than herself. 0 points.

I was accused of taking the easy way out and of got predictions of a dismal future that I’ve always felt, deep down, would indeed be me: alone, with nothing meaningful to show for all my years of living. Am I taking the easy way out? Am I just not willing to work at anything? Will I look back all those years later and realize that I’ve decimated my own life with my selfishness and lack of commitment?

I don’t know.

Just the night before, a friend of mine was telling me that I could be taking the easy way, but instead I’m being courageous, taking the hard way — doing the right thing for the long term at the expense of short term pain.

So, who’s right? Maybe neither of them is right. Maybe I’m just stumbling along, doing the best I can. Not running away or being brave or having any kind of a plan at all. And maybe I shouldn’t be vilified. But I shouldn’t be congratulated either. I don’t know what I’m doing. Haven’t calculated any pros and cons, long term vs. short term trade-offs. I’m just trying to make it through, day to day.

I was driving the other day, listening to the Dixie Chicks sing about taking the long way around. I was thinking about how so many people just want stability and once they’ve got their career and their house and their relationship and whatever, their life is settled, and then they live it. And I can see the attractiveness in that. And I’ve had that. But I’ve given it up. I’ve changed careers. I’ve left a seemingly perfectly fine relationship. Left my home with its nicely decorated living room and substantial bookcases. I guess I’m taking the long way. As the song goes, I could have made it easier on myself.

And I don’t know if I’m gaining or losing. I just know that I’m no superman. And according to a TV show about perky doctors who get in zany situations and have heartfelt talks, that’s OK.

In an effort to break free from the soul-crushing despair this journal has become, to bring some pointless frivolity to the melodramatic, whiny ranting, I figured I would share my newly found shopping tips. Clothing shopping tips. Right, I want to tell you how to shop for clothes.

I realize shopping advice from me, the self-admitted crappiest clothing shopper on earth may seem a bit odd. But if we learn from our mistakes, then I must surely be a wise shopping guru woman, dispensing shopping wisdom from my place aloft the highest shopping peak. Or at least, I can tell you what not to do is what I’m saying.

I’ve had many learning opportunities of late, as all of my clothing is either completely hideous or doesn’t fit to the point that I look like a coat rack, flailing about in the jackets with my too many arms and stubby legs. I’ve had no choice but to brave the stores and the malls and the internet with the perky salespeople and racks of ugliness, like cardboard and curtains stitched together by blind lobsters without thumbs (not that seeing lobsters tend to have thumbs, just go with me on this) and crazy cartoon carnival house mirrors and did I mention this? with their clothes that refuse to fit me because apparently I am indeed the aforementioned coat rack.

So, what have I learned?

Clearly, regardless of how lazy one might be, one should not just randomly grab clothing and bring it home, with the good intentions of trying it on there and returning if it’s not quite right. Especially when that one is me, the one currently on the road to hell paved with those shiny good intentions. I discovered this tip years ago, but I’m caught up this loop of madness wherein I repeat the same behavior and somehow expect a different result. Like maybe the clothing fairy will return all the poor choices for me and replace them with gleaming racks of gloriousness and light while I’m sleeping.

I thought this process might be a bit easier if I shopped online. After all, you can’t possibly try things on before you buy them, so no lack-of-trying-on guilt! And how hard can it be to find a box, fill out the form, drive to the post office and… Right. I guess I didn’t quite think that one all the way through.

Another bad habit of mine is that I refuse to shop in places where clothing is less than a thousand dollars an item. Not that I’m willing to spend a thousand dollars on any one item, which makes the buying process a little more difficult. Maybe those discount stores remind me of my childhood a little too much, when I spent my hours of back-to-school shopping at thrift stores, going through rack after rack after musty, crowded, hopeless rack.

I tried going into Marshall’s again earlier today and was reminded as to why I normally drive right on by. Everything is too big for me, except for the space between the racks, which is way too small, and I have to cut my way through the clothing like I’m in a dark jungle, dodging shoppers who are oblivious that anyone else might possibly be in the store and might need to get by them to get the hell out already because I am suffocating and please don’t make me shop here anymore. (Why oh why can’t there be a Target near me so I could do my inexpensive clothes shopping in peace?)

But, again, it’s not that your more expensive-type stores are any better. For one thing, everything is a thousand dollars, which yes, is a drawback. And knowing that, it’s best to consider price tags before purchasing. Or you might end up paying over two hundred for two belts. Not that I’ve ever known this to happen. I’m just saying that it’s possible. You know, hypothetically.

OK, fine, here’s what happened.

I really did need new belts and I’d been looking for them everywhere except that I don’t know if you’ve noticed this but belt makers apparently think it’s the 80s rather than 2007 already, my god people, seriously. 2007. Not 1986. Ahem. Anyway, all the belts for women are those super wide, angled, generally white, possibly with bangles, crappy crappy horribleness that I could barely wear the first time it was hip. OK, so I wore it the first time, but I was much younger and stupider then. I wore those black rubber bracelets too. And put crazy scarves in my hair! My permed hair! No, I don’t have pictures. Anyway, the point is that I have been searching for normal belts for months, the kind that will actually go through the belt loops in jeans and the only ones I found were at this shoe store in New York so I was all ready to buy them but then the guy mentioned that they don’t come with belt buckles. Seriously, you’re supposed to find your own buckles and figure out how the hell to put them on. That was never happening. I declined the belts.

So, I was at this store the other day and I tried on this dress, because you know, my whole if only I were pretty, why can’t I wear ribbons and curtsy and and oh yeah it’s because ribbons tend to clash with the weight of the fucking world on my shoulders and could I possibly whine anymore, but sometimes I still want ribbons. Right. Because of that. I tried on this dress and it was honestly, the prettiest, floatiest dress you’ve ever seen and it had ruffles, but not too many and it was the color of the sky and it twirled and sang and danced. And it was $715. The dress went right back on the rack.

So, you see, after that experience, you would think I would check the price tags on the belts. But I saw the belts and I was like, finally, belts that won’t make me look like I’m in a Cindy Lauper video. I must have these belts! And so I marched them right up to the counter. And managed to look convincingly nonchalant when the cashier asked me for $213. Oh, $213? Of course, just the price I would expect to pay for two small strips of leather with ugly metal attached to the end. Absolutely.

The other problem with these stores is that they remind me how completely frantic my life has become and how mere seconds can seem like an eternity and I could have answered three email in those twenty seconds, please let me take my blackberry and my diamond-encrusted belts and go! But no. The cashier has to first wrap the items in tissue paper. And then tape the tissue paper. And then lovingly place the tissue paper in a bag. And then tie ribbons around the bag. And curl the ribbon. And bring the bag around the side of the counter because Lord knows I couldn’t possibly be expected to lift anything as heavy as two belts over a counter. And honestly, I hope those belts are enjoying all the attention because when I get them home I’m going to tear them out of the paper (if I can get those damn ribbons untied), throw away the bag, and shove them into a dark and lonely drawer with nothing to cushion them. Well, maybe socks.

My impatience at the tissue wrapping ceremony makes me wonder if I’m becoming a little too high strung. I have a friend who talks to the various people he meets as he walks in and out of stores and it is an absolute joy to walk around with him or even be on the phone with him while he’s doing it because he just brings calm and happiness everywhere he goes. Like there’s all the time in the world. And I think, I should be more like that rather than furtively checking my watch (you know, if I had one), wondering how much longer the ribbon curling will take.

But back to my shopping tale, which does in fact have a happy ending. I did find a dress online that was not $715, I did manage to escape the Marshall’s with no dire effects, and no one has tried to hang a coat on me yet. And hey, I did get that ribbon I wanted so much. Perhaps my future as a shopper isn’t so doomed after all. I just need someone with me at all times to check the belt prices.

I don’t want to have to do what I’m good at. My entire life, I’ve been doing things because I’m good at them and just once, maybe I’d like to opt out of the obligation that being good at sometimes brings. I was reading this magazine the other day, Marie Claire or something, some fluffy thing for the plane, to keep me distracted from the plane jumping around as it hurled itself through space. A woman had written this article about her divorce and said that while she loved her husband and she had kids and there was nothing terrible going on in her marriage, it wasn’t how she wanted to spend the rest of her life and one day she was talking to someone who told her that no one grades you at the end. And that she realized she’d been living her life according to all these responsibilities and checklists, and how it would all look on her final grade. So, she changed her life.

I don’t know if I agree with the woman who made the comment that gave her the impetus to transform. We get graded all the time, by everyone. People who expect things from us, who rely on us — it’s not always a bad thing, right? This life is made of relationships and connections and you don’t build that by expecting nothing of each other. So we are graded, sure. And it matters.

But. Does it always matter? Does it matter above all else? When does what’s deep down in our souls trump the world around us? How much do we care about our grades?

Sometimes, I just want to change my life entirely. Go somewhere else. Do something else. Forget all the obligations and responsibilities and weight. I want to spend my days writing and being loved. I don’t care if I’m poor or not admired or not changing the world. I want to be happy.

People do it all the time. They pick up and just leave it all behind. I just got another email from my uncle and his wife who are sailing around the world. They are just stopping in ports as they go along, meeting people, trying local food, getting back in the boat and sailing. They don’t know what the next day will bring, but they know it will be new and different and they’ll experience it together. And they’re happy. Not too many years ago, my uncle was married to someone else, living with his wife and two daughters, doing construction and remodeling the old farm house they bought. I was talking to my grandpa a few weeks ago when he had just gotten off the phone with my uncle.

“He’s my son the sailer now. He used to be my son the construction worker and farmer. I don’t get sailing. I liked the farm house.” And right there, a father was giving his son a grade. And it wasn’t an A. And I thought, we only get this one life and it only lasts so long. I’ll take happiness.

You have to understand, I’m a person who has always lived for As. Nothing was more important than that A, than pleasing those around me, than making sure no one thought bad about me, that everyone thought I was perfect, the best, that I was doing was I was good at it and accomplishing all I could. But these days, the more I think fuck the A. What does that bring you other than other people’s happiness?

Not that it’s as black and white as all that, of course. Bringing happiness to others makes you happy. And being in relationships makes you happy, and there’s always compromise, always responsibility. And you can’t just take and take. I don’t know the answer. I don’t know when you get to make the choices that hurt people.

I’m reading this book, eat, pray, love, about a woman who wanted to change her life. Not that her life was terrible, and I get this feeling completely. She had a successful career as a magazine writer, had just bought a huge house with her husband, and was living the American Dream. But. And it’s the but I understand. She laid on her bathroom floor, sobbing and sobbing. Finally, she prayed to God: “tell me what to do, tell me what to do, tell me what to do.” And God told her to go to bed.

It was so immediately clear that this was the only thing to do. I would not have accepted any other answer. I would not have trusted a great booming voice that said either: You Must Divorce Your Husband! or You Must Not Divorce Your Husband! Because that’s not true wisdom. True wisdom gives you the only possible answer. Go back to bed, said this omniscient interior voice, because you don’t need to know the final answer right now, at three o’clock in the morning on a Thursday in November. Go back to bed, because I love you. Go back to bed, because the only thing you need to do for now is get some rest and take good care of yourself until you do know the answer. Go back to bed so that, when the tempest comes, you’ll be strong enough to deal with it. And the tempest is coming, dear one. Very soon. But not tonight.

It’s a true story. She does eventually divorce her husband, and it’s terrible and awful and he calls her selfish over and over and over and she accepts all that guilt and responsibility and selfishness and she’s extremely depressed and then she drops everything and spends a year traveling to Italy, India, and Indonesia. Because she wants to. Because it makes her happy.

Look, I know life is about compromise and hardship and pain and sacrifice, as well as joy and love, and I know I can’t just run off and live happily ever after. But when I’m alone and I have time to think, the panic can overwhelm me. This is the only life I have. I’m spending it working, because I’m good at this and I like it and I can make a difference here. But what am I doing for me? What in this life is mine? I (dramatically, in exaggerating martyr-like fashion) feel like an Egyptian pyramid worker, carrying stone after stone and creating a beautiful, impressive structure that will awe and astonish civilizations for generations, that will house pharaohs and queens and jewels. And with no time to build a small little home of my own, just for me.

Do I just want to run to something that doesn’t exist? Is the grass always greener until you get there and find that it’s the same color as all the other grass? Or sometimes, is the grass over there really that sparkling color of green that shines and floats in the sun and you walk through it barefoot and your toes sing and you can’t imagine spending your life walking on any other grass?

I don’t want to be like my stepdad. He wasn’t happy. So we moved. Then he wasn’t happy. So we moved. He still wasn’t happy so he quit his job. Then another. Then went back to the first. And we moved again. And then he decided it was our fault, my mom’s fault, someone’s fault, so he left. And then he wasn’t happy. I don’t want to be that person.

But there’s someplace I’m supposed to be. And not someplace I’m supposed to be because I’m obligated, I’m responsible, I should be there. But someplace where I fit, where it feels right, where my toes are happy. I want to go to that place and find peace.

On a flight this morning, the flight attendant let everyone know that she would be picking up the movie players soon, and suggested fast forwarding to find out how things end.

Sometimes, when things are particularly hard and all I can do is not know what to do, it seems like it might be nice to fast forward to find out how things end. But of course, this is life, not a movie, so while we’re living anyway, there is no real “end”, there’s only what happens next. And what happens next after that.

I’m in another hotel with another goldfish. She seems distressed (yes, she’s a girl; her name is Evelyn). She’s frantically swimming at the glass, trying to find her way out. I know how she feels sometimes, trying to find your way when any way at all is impossible. But you keep swimming anyway. I don’t want to be frantic like Evelyn. It won’t help me get anywhere. I can sometimes find a peaceful place in not knowing what happens next, although sometimes the what’s happening right now is harder. You want to frantically fight against it, but all that will make you is tired.

When I was still married and things weren’t going well, my then husband said that I used to be fun. Implying that the previous fun me was much preferred to the current not-so-much fun me. And I know. It’s not so great being around someone who’s broadcasting soul-crushing sadness. And it’s not so fun to be that person either. I want to be fun. And funny. And poetic. And clever. And entertaining. And to not be those things is exhausting me. But this too shall pass.

So I hold on as tightly as I can to my solid buoy in this vast and endless ocean. And I fight with all my breath to just be still, to hold on, to make it through this moment, to get to what happens next. And to what happens next after that.

I always thought I had a pretty good sense of direction. I realize that anyone who’s ever ridden in a car with me or had me call them while I drove around aimlessly with no idea where I am (”Um, I’m driving down a freeway? And I might be going east. Or possibly west? No, I don’t see an exit sign. I might be in Santa Clara. Or… not.”) would read that and stare at me in astonishment that I would ever for even a single second of my life think I had good navigation skills, but it’s true. I used to think (and even sometimes now am absolutely convinced!) I had a fairly reliable internal compass. I think it’s because my family is so much worse than directions than I am. Of all of them, I was always the only one who had any idea which direction we were headed and which way we should veer next. Compared to them, I am a GPS navigation system, sensing when we should turn left. Or make a u-turn as the case may be. If you only knew where I came from, you would applaud how far I’ve come.

Of course, I’m actually terrible at navigation, always lost, turning around, wandering the night streets asking for directions.

I normally bring my navigation system with me when I travel and know I’ll be renting a car. But this week, I didn’t quite have room in my bag, so I headed off directionless. I did write down directions, but I have this tendency to just write streets and turns and not number of miles or expected time. So, I’ll be driving along, no idea if I’m supposed to go 2 miles or 20 until the exit and at some point I wonder. Am I even going the right way? Am I still on the right freeway? This happened on the way to the airport yesterday, and I ended up pulling up Google Maps on my Blackberry, which is no easy feat when you’re going 75 down the freeway. (I was going the opposite direction of the airport, by the way. In case you were wondering.)

I notice that I’m a completely different driver in California. I don’t know if it’s because I’m in California, where driving fast and aggressively is just what you do, or if all just feels like home so much that I get right back into my youthful driving ways (er, I may have accumulated a few tickets when I last lived here, all those years ago), or if it’s that I’m not driving my extremely crappy car that makes driving nearly impossible. Maybe it’s a little of each. It’s not that I always get the greatest car when I rent. Sometimes I get lucky, like when I got that Infiniti G35 the other day. But sometimes, like this week, I get a station wagon. A station wagon? Do they even make those anymore? Somehow I ended up speeding in it anyway.

I’m always so anxious about getting on planes, even though I know how the odds say that flying is so much safer than driving. I was reminded of that yesterday when I was almost killed driving home from the airport. It’s amazing how many things can go through you mind in such a short period of time. I was driving through a tunnel, going about 65, when I realized the SUV in the next lane over was going to swerve into my lane. I thought the following: Surely he sees me and isn’t going to swerve into my lane. Fuck. I think he’s really coming over here. Where am I going to go? I’m in a tunnel! He’s going to knock me right up into the wall. OK, all I can do is swerve out of his way into this other lane. Is there a car in that lane? Is it clear? What if I just speed up and swerve halfway out of the lane? Will that be enough to get out of his way and not hit any other potential cars? I thought all of this in the fraction of a second that it took for me to get barely get out of the way as the SUV headed straight at me. I only panicked after I was safe.

My internal compass does, as it turns out, tend to kick in when I’m making decisions. And I think I do pretty well. I’m logical, pragmatic, objective, decisive. I spend all day at work making decisions. We should go this way. That should go this other way. I can pick a direction and stick with it, then assess as we go along if we should change course.

But. Then there are other times. When it’s just like when I’m driving and I have no direction at all. And decisions seem absolutely impossible. And so I continue along, waiting to see what the next day will bring. And when you don’t have to decide what to do about a big SUV barreling at you at 70mph, sometimes go along with no sense of direction works just fine.

Sometimes, it’s quiet and it’s just me and I’m not doing something for someone else or because of anything and everything is still. And I don’t hear the world going around me at a million miles an hour and I’m not thinking about obligations and letting everyone around me down if I take a step in the wrong direction and it is only me.

At a moment such as that, I hunger for clarity. For sureness. For something inside of me to make itself known. For the silence to make everything clear. But it doesn’t. And I don’t know. And I feel lost, like a little girl in a crowd, looking for my mother’s hand.

I don’t know what the answers are. I just want something solid to hold on to.

I sometimes wish I had more brevity. I’m so full of clutter and too many words and thoughts and worries and it would be nice, wouldn’t it, to be brief. To be summed up as simplicity.

Omit needless words. The Elements of Life, courtesy of Strunk and White. That every moment tell.