The Deep and Meaningfuls

About once every month or two, my phone notifies me of a call coming in as “Restricted.” Under normal circumstances, I would let it run to voicemail, and then delete before listening- as I already know that I don’t have money to pay off whatever collector is ringing. The circumstances here in Australia, though, are far from “normal,” and I answer this call every time.

The voice on the other end of the line is pure Lake Michigan biscuit-sopped gravy and sweet honey sunshine lilting “Heeey, Leanne” through the line, and before she can say “this is D*,” I’ve cut her off with an excited greeting.

D* was one of the first people we met in Australia, and I have mentioned her in this blog before. But, she warrants more than just a passing glance. Though we’ve only seen each other in person once, our conversations are what she calls “deep and meaningfuls” and have more than once pulled me out of a deep funk.

She came to Australia over twenty years ago, also as a first generation student, also as the first in her family to live abroad. We talk about everything from beloved US foods (Frito-Lay barbecue corn chips for her, collard sandwiches for me) to alienation, family dynamics, and how- even after twenty years- you’ll never fully ‘fit in” to a transplant culture. D* works in transcultural mental health- with immigrants, refugees and asylum seekers- so I listen carefully to her wisdom and try to recall her words when I commit (frequent, embarrassing) faux pas.

But I’m not a charity case for her. It’s an even exchange. She often remarks on how refreshing it is to hear my American candour and openness. Even by US standards, though, I’m a bit much- and that sometimes weirds up otherwise comfortable exchanges. I don’t do small talk well, and tend to bring up topics that some shy away from. I’ve reached a point in my life where I no longer try to cover up my past and just spill truth everywhere. And I’ve found that this makes me a “safe person” to talk to. Strangers and friends tell me about things that no one else knows. D* says she’s attracted to that in me, and has shared the thorns and blooms of her own past. She knows that I get it. Despite our differences in age and race, many of our experiences are similar, and we are very much alike on a personal level.

D* called yesterday while I was entertaining myself by wallowing in boredom, loneliness, and a weird combination of hopeful despair. We talked about that, about both world and personal issues, and we talked about paths- the funny desire lines that get us from place to place without following the clearly laid paths. And I felt a lot better. I even vacuumed the house afterward. And I hate vacuuming.

My phone rarely rings these days- WhatsApp, Skype and Facebook messenger being the way I communicate with most folks now. And no matter what I am doing- be it sitting in class, grocery shopping, or busying myself being miserable- I always answer. The caller ID says “Restricted,” but I know there are no limits to where the calls will take us.

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Writing on Paper

The thick muscle that keeps the thumb from running away from my palm cramped up yesterday, and a hard knot started to reform on the side of my second-finger’s knuckle. These are familiar discomforts. When I was young, there would be days that my right hand simply stopped working altogether out of exhaustion. I don’t know that my children have ever experienced this- despite the fact that O is becoming nearly an avid a writer as myself.

I have been remiss in updating this blog, but not because I haven’t been writing- in fact, I have been writing more even than my usual (which is an amount that borders on pathological)- I’ve just moved back to paper now. This is for a number of reasons, but mostly because my scrubby little notebooks are lighter and more portable than a laptop, and cheaper to replace when if I drop it. Okay, and also- because I don’t feel like such a douchebag cozying up with one in a public place as I do with a computer. There, I said it. I think

I would say something here about authenticity and “connecting with place” or blah blah blah things I keep seeing in articles that come across *ahem* my Facebook feed (irony, no?), but that wouldn’t be accurate.
True, I wouldn’t miss it if I lost it- this woozy glow of the computer screen. A lot of people feel trapped by the tractor-beam of technology, laughing at ourselves as we compulsively check our phones. It has become a necessary part of my daily life- emails, assignments, keeping up with family and friends abroad- I don’t hate it, but do grow weary of it sometimes.

But, I made a promise to myself that I would update this blog regularly (well- I thought it would be weekly but- HA!- nope) and so I will be working to move my pen & ink scribblings to this digital format over the next few days. If you subscribe, you may want to turn notifications off, because I’m about to blow it up.