In the beginning

In the beginning…

In the beginning, there was this word: sabbatical. It may not have been the right word—it was chosen, in large part, as a kind of short-hand, a way to tell my clients (and my mother) that I wasn’t self-destructing, that I hadn’t lost my mind. The word, “sabbatical,” provided a framework in which it seemed…oh, maybe, reasonable to turn down work, to empty out my calendar and checkbook, to define my time by time itself—one year—rather than by what I did with it.

Despite feeling like something of an imposter, I liked that word, sabbatical. I liked its root in Sabbath, liked the sense of stillness and reflection it provided. And I liked the echo of institutions that came with it—the solidity and stolidity of the university, the sense that something big and impersonal endorsed at least the notion, if not my particular practice of it. I liked the sense that it was something earned, although I have not worked as hard or long as most. In a way, although I first chose the word perhaps to comfort others, it came to comfort me.

But in the last few weeks, that comfort has escaped me. Earlier than I expected, I had to drain my IRA—some pay checks I’d expected from last year’s efforts were delayed, and this huge gap opened in between our bank accounts and our expenses. I am now back where I started, in the beginning of my full-time self-employment—I’ve got a couple thousand dollars for retirement, from the last “real job” I had, in 1999.

Just after that, I started having…something like flash forwards…intrusive, uninvited fantasies about leaving my dear Girlfriend, and setting up a household on my own, just down the road in Richmond. I started feeling I was something of a reverse vampire—as the sun went down, and Girlfriend ambled home, I gentled, settled in. But every morning, as the sun arose and when she’d left for work, I’d start to itch, to pack a bag—and go. The visions that I had were vivid, and detailed, and really, quite nostalgic. I recognized that something of the life I’d had in Richmond—15 years ago—was calling.

Fifteen or so years back was the beginning of my writer life. It had an edgy adventurousness, and the sense of being somehow tuned in to the universe. I applied to a creative writing program, then had the urge to drive from Richmond to New Mexico, for coffee with a writer I admired. I remember thinking that my therapist would stop me—instead she excused herself to her back room, and came out with a telephone directory for Taos—together we looked up the writer’s number. The day before I left for my long drive, I received notice of acceptance to the MFA program. I drove off feeling like a writer, feeling like the world was turning underneath my wheels, feeling like I’d finally found my path.

Writing this, I see my yearning to return to that fair city and those days as a kind of homesickness for self. That trek out to New Mexico—in 1992—cost me a girlfriend, and I guess some part of me is saying that I’d make that sacrifice again. But there’s another part that’s simply weary—and a wiser part, that so far, has prevented me from driving much past Occoquan.

There are some things of this relationship, in this Sabbath year, that I’d love to be free of: the comments, for example, that Girlfriend is oh so very generous, supporting me as I don’t work. I think: I am paying my own way. I think: I didn’t promise to love, honor, and work 9 to 5. This assumption is widespread, persistent, and insinuating—folks have asked if she resents my time off work. I think: jealousy, I’d understand; resentment, not so much. And we have done it to each other—Girlfriend cashing in the chips, and leaving me to pay the bills and buy the groceries. And I have taken on the task of making dinners, ever more delectable. Despite my crush on Martha Stewart, I’d really rather make a bench.

When I dream about my Richmond years alone, I sometimes dream about my loneliness. The long and all-too-quiet, oh-so-many days and nights I had to fill myself. There were days of arid emptiness, and sopping wet despair. Eventually, though, something called me—finally, something shaped itself. A project, or a curiosity, a yearning for a friend two states away—and the nerve to drive there for a conversation. I remember nights of abject terror, pock-marked by the memory of every horror show I’d ever seen. It didn’t matter that I knew there were no things like monsters in the hallway just outside my bedroom door—I also knew there was no one to call, if were wrong.

It’s such a strange and unexpected cul-de-sac; I’m not sure how to find that loneliness with Girlfriend at my side. Because it was that loneliness that started everything I’ve ever hoped about myself: the stumbling commitment to my writing; the spine to drive all day or night for something that I hoped for or believed in; the courage to await the dawn. The loneliness was always there at the beginning; I’m not sure what to hope for if it’s gone.