Survival Mode Has a Way of Making Your Life Very Small

I thought traffic was going to be one of the worst parts of the drive.

Then I found myself surrounded by cars, moving slowly, and felt relieved. Cars in front of me, behind me, on either side; for once, everything had slowed down enough that I could be in it.

That surprised me.

I was driving to see my sister in the hospital. I was afraid, and I went because I was more afraid of missing the chance to see her. There were bridges on those trips. One had a metal deck; the car felt unstable beneath me as I crossed it, and I prayed my way over.

I had been in a car accident years before. Driving frightens me. This isn’t only a preference for staying in, although I do enjoy staying in. The fear has kept me from things I wanted to do and people I wanted to see.

With my sister, I had a reason I didn’t question.

With myself … apparently we needed to discuss it.

I could make that trip for someone I loved. Why was wanting to go somewhere for my own sake so much harder to take seriously? That question followed me home.

I was spending a lot of time in my apartment. I could work there and stay there, and another week would pass. I wanted community, but I wasn’t giving myself many chances to meet anyone. I wanted experiences, but I could anticipate the trouble involved in having them very, very well.

I still can.

I know how to make a declaration. Following it with an ordinary afternoon out has been harder.

Bonnie and I did go to a new park, though. A park here in Charlotte that I hadn’t known about. I took some footage; I wanted to remember it and share it with somebody who might want to go, too.

Bonnie was excited. She needed to smell everything. Absolutely everything.

And I let her. We took our time; she needs time to just be, too.

There are other things I want to do. See a play. Hear live music. Learn something about the Black history of this city instead of simply living here without knowing much about who was here before me. I’m Gullah Geechee; place and history matter to me, and I want to give that curiosity some of my time.

I want to get back to the water.

While I was visiting my sister, I wanted to go to the beach. I didn’t go. She was unwell, and I felt guilty wanting something enjoyable while she was in the hospital. But I kept thinking about it: the smell of salt water, standing beside the Atlantic, that feeling of being near something so much bigger than me.

Strange, isn’t it? On the highway, the scale of everything can frighten me. At the ocean, I can feel comforted by how much I don’t understand. I don’t need to know everything that’s in that water to want to stand beside it.

I’m interested in that difference. I don’t have an explanation for it yet.

What I do have is a growing impatience with spending so much time planning a life I keep postponing. I want to enjoy art as someone making it, someone watching it, someone who bought the ticket and showed up. I want to find a place I like and have something to say about it beyond I’ve been meaning to go.

I love my home. I’ve picked out things I find beautiful, a little lamp, a stand in the corner. I want to care about how it feels to live there. I also want to have somewhere to come back from.

My sister said something during those visits that stayed with me: “It’s up to me.” I kept repeating it to myself. I can’t use those words to control everything that happens, or make fear disappear on command. But I can ask what I’m willing to try next.

For now, I’ve been to one new park with Bonnie. I want to go again.