The Write Perspective

As does Inspiration

I’m writing in the back of Shari’s car, three suitcase wheels are jamming into my left side. My niece is sitting on my lap, sipping on a diet frosted lemonade, straw scratching my cheek here and there. Tomorrow there will be a bight-eyed, eager new pimple at every single place it touched my skin.

“So why are you writing?” you ask innocently, not knowing the delicate, fragile nature of inspiration.

I’ve spent the last nine months teaching school and there was many a time when I would look at the bent heads of my students, each of them independently working, giving me ample time to write. I tried. I really did but you will not believe how dull I am while teaching. It’s not that nothing interesting happens- being offered cocaine in a deserted alley in Cabo, Mexico is objectively not boring. Neither is loading a deer corpse onto Andrew’s truck at 11:30 pm in the middle of a highway. But my schoolteaching self was unable to turn any of these into an interesting story.

I am hopeful that the inspiration and talent that I once possessed, even in small measure, will reappear unharmed.

The reason for my cramped quarters at the moment is my own stupidity. If you don’t know me, my family will be the first to tell you I am one of the more forgetful people they know. Fine, they might actually tell you they’ve never imagined someone could be as forgetful as me. I’ve decided my problem is just being unaware. I use my mind to think (or overthink) so much, I sometimes fail to use it to observe the outside world. I’ve thought about this a lot. 

This situation is a perfect example.

Yesterday I was talking to my sister, Rebekah. Shari and I were in Idaho helping Uncle Paul and Co. move into their new house. We were planning to leave Thursday sometime and while talking to my sister, Rebekah, I discovered she would be in Missoula around the time when we’d be driving through. “Could I get a ride home with you?” She asked.

I quickly checked with Shari to see if we could leave early and pick her up. Shari agreed and it was settled. Rebekah and Nikki would come into Missoula with her MIL, who was planning to stay overnight, then Rebekah and Nikki would come home with us.

I had driven Shari’s car the day before and marveled at how full it was. She came to Idaho from her teaching position and brought all her earthly possessions with her. The trunk and backseat were filled to the ceiling with suitcases and totes, and I struggled to fit my small suitcase and bag in on top of everything. At some point you would think I’d consider that before we get somewhere to drop off some cargo, I had arranged to pick up one adult and one child. It did not.

We were 30 minutes from Missoula when Shari (who would like to retain her innocence) asked for more details. “So we’re meeting Bekah?” I nod. “And she has her own vehicle?”

I look condescendingly over at her. “Obviously not, the whole point is that we’re taking her home.” I snorted at her for being so oblivious.

“But where is she going to sit?”

I was fed up with all the redundant questions and turned to point dramatically at the backseat, only to see a wall of suitcases rising up from the seats.

We dissolved into shrieks of laughter. “What was I thinking?” I wheezed, knowing full well that I was thinking about the human psyche and how vulnerable it is as children. The next 8 minutes was spent trying to control our laughter before beginning to think critically. I shuffled through several different options, tossing out the dumb ones before voicing them. “What if we rent a mini-storage in Missoula and put your things there?” From Shari’s wild giggling I gathered this wasn’t obvious option #1, so I played it off as a joke and laughed along with her.

We settled on asking Rebekah’s MIL if we could put a few totes in her trunk and collect them later. She agreed and we left two totes in her care. I knew I deserved to sit in the backseat among the dumped paper clips and sliding suitcases and when we met Bekah, meekly slunk into my designated spot.

So far I’ve survived several quick stops wherein the top layer of suitcases were found guilty of attempted decapitation. The wheels of others have rearranged my side and created new divots that are surprisingly comfortable. Unfortunately, the diet frosted lemonade isn’t agreeing with my stomach and claustrophobia is clawing at my door. This too shall pass. And apparently, these are the places inspiration strikes.