Turn Toward Time
Today I drove down the driveway watching thin, wispy clouds float over the desert make dark saturated patches. I knew the freshly washed and re-blackened tires were now orangey brown ruining the cool, crisp look the silver paint job on my mustang gave the car.
Somehow I was able to change my mind mid-stream, though, and make the dirt and dust a very, very, good thing. It was a simple act that took awareness. Having the ability to do this small gesture changed the trajectory of my morning since I was no longer worried about having less than perfection. My expectation for my new car to stay shiny instead was incorporated into the reality of my experience, then adding to my now altered perception of my car.
The relationship I had with my vision of the car as a tool for extending my sexual identity into the realm of confident, untouchable Goddess got a little dirt laden tweak. I embraced the earthiness of my sexuality and found a way to feel at ease with the way my use of the car in my new desert environs was affecting the perfection I found myself striving for so many decades of my life.
I let the thoughts that had sharp edges, the ones that were so pained by the dirt getting on the sleek new tires and I watched them slip and slide. Without me taking hold, they became wispy just like the clouds. My driving experience shifted again and my body, wrapped inside the metal took on the layers of light brown powder coating self-perception.
I put on my brakes for the gate, climbed out of the low door and pushed the metal gate from one side of the driveway entrance to another. When I turned back to the car I caught my reflection in the windshield. I saw a middle-aged woman looking back at me. She smiled and around her eyes barely perceptible amidst the blue sky and clouds reflected in the glass were lines, rivulets of fleshy wrinkles. I startled as I always do to see myself in the body of this old woman. She has my features but they sag a little and her hair is streaked with white especially around her face. She is different than ingenue whose body she has taken over but today I smile even wider at her, letting the wrinkles outline her bright light filled eyes as I feel my heart go out to her. She likes the car and my, I think she’s even happier when it’s dirty. She knows how to embrace all that comes down the road. As we’ve traveled together, body and consciousness, sometimes close together, sometimes far apart, she has emerged when I’ve felt myself in the deepest pockets of loneliness.
She has the strength to heed the need I whisper to her. She helped me live as a nomad for five years, sleeping in the back of my SUV while I wrote a thesis so I could get my masters. She is open and still, like the desert. She is as old as the million years of magma boulders.
I crawl back into the Mustang’s seat quickly pulling out of the ranch’s driveway onto the road I now live on with Mark. Michael has come to help him paint the window frames on the south patio a darker brown. It will show more wear faster than the rusty beige they’re trimmed with now. I imagine them with a rumbled patina from the sun and high winds we’ll get this winter before the summer bake in August. I imagine I will like them as much, maybe their evolving surface will begin to cup the glass inside them more gently as their surface turns toward Time.
Suggested reading: Michel Foucault; History of Sexuality, Eckhart Tolle; The Power of Now