Route 66

Duct tape. If it worked for MacGyver, it should work for me. Right? Any awkward moment, broken bone, or bear I encounter, can easily be remedied by the King of all tapes. At least that is what I was thinking when I tossed the roll of grey magic onto the camping equipment accumulating on my living room floor.

In a few short days, I will be launching my trusty (and I say that with great hope) 2002 Honda Civic out onto The Mother Road for a ten-day trek to California and back. The easily identifiable attractions include a celebration in Fresno, California, my beloved Yosemite National Park, a hike into the Grand Canyon, and maybe a sand dune sled at White Sands National Monument. All of which will include me, myself and I.

My mother would tell you that this aspect of the trip is her least favorite. She seems to think that solo travel, especially for a female, is not a wise decision. And, according to her, that is just a drop in the bucket compared to possible dangers on a “wilderness” excursion…not to mention two or three of them. However, what my mother fails to understand is that this trip, above all others, is one in which the company is abundant (and I'm not talking about multiple personalities here...although I do tend to talk to myself a lot).

Seven strangers, in three different cities, with four different couches have agreed to be a part of my adventure by letting me stay in their homes as I travel back and forth across six western states. This doesn’t even include all of the people I will meet during my National Park experiences, or the festivities in Fresno. So even though I have registered with Twitter (RMarq) to keep my loved ones posted during my solo experience, I can honestly say that my concerns with safety are almost non-existent. These people, the ones I have yet to meet, are the true attractions of this road trip down good ‘ole Route 66. As the story goes, this time around, the journey is the destination.

Falling Into Letting Go

It is that time of year again when Mother Nature debuts her fall fashion line. The red hues and golden highlights decorate the trees with intention. The change, although predictable, is always exciting and anticipated. Yet, it isn’t very long after the colorful show before the leaves fall from their branches to the ground beneath. One afternoon, last autumn, as I watched several leaves fall gracefully from their host, I couldn’t help but wonder if they were actually falling or letting go.

What exactly is the difference? Well, in my experience, a fall is usually unintentional; an unplanned, often unwanted, action. Letting go, on the other hand, is a choice; an intended action that is made consciously. So, is it a fair assumption to think that a leaf falls unintentionally from a tree?

While I cannot say for sure, I am pretty certain that the life cycle of a leaf is planned in advance. It is a predictable process, similar to our very own life cycle. Therefore, although maybe unwanted, I believe the leaves actually choose to let go when following their natural cyclical state of being to pursue the next step in their life cycle.

There have been times in my life when I actively chose to let go of people or struggles. But, I also recall times when I reluctantly, or unintentionally, let someone or something go. The assumption was that doing so was the best choice for me at the time regardless of desire or, in the case of doing so unintentionally, the course of time. In those situations, I guess I could say that I fell into letting go. So even though letting go was a choice…it was a choice that wasn’t necessarily planned and was, possibly, unwanted.

Homecoming

As I walked with the students and a couple fellow staff members down the streets of the University, passing out organizational information and candy to those who had come to enjoy the annual parade, I started thinking about the word Homecoming. What exactly does it mean to the University and its constituents? Do the students, alumni, faculty and staff really think of the University as home? Or is the word just a representation of an annual celebration of school pride, with a slice of football and a sprinkle of Greek domination?

We are often told that home is where the heart is. But, what are our options? Does this mean emotional attachment to a location or, literally, wherever the heart is? Is it, maybe, as simple as permanent residence? As the marching band sounded off in the distance, and the smell of hotdogs started to radiate from the football stadium, I realized that in all cases it is a sense of comfort.

Whether the attachment is a blood line, familiarity, or a solid connection to the self in the moment, the idea of home is a pleasant one when based on the above declaration. So, I continued by asking myself, where is my home? Is it in St. Louis where I grew up? Is it in Springfield where I have spent the majority of the last ten years of my life? Is it in Long Creek, South Carolina where I acquired a strength that redefined my idea of existence? Or is it anywhere I happen to be in the moment?

At the end of a long day, I look forward to going to my one-bedroom apartment in Springfield. Therefore, I assumed this was my definition of home. But, after some reflection, I realized that home actually means going to a place where I find comfort, and confidence, in being myself. And, truthfully, that can be anywhere I want it to be.

Splash Dance

I was just about to wrap things up when it happened; the automatic flush. My face scrunched with disappointment. As expected, the back-splash from the forceful disposal met me halfway. Why couldn’t it have waited? Isn’t that what it’s supposed to do? Wait until you part ways with its structure?!

After practically jumping off the toilet to avoid another drizzling that was sure to follow in the footsteps of flushing, several thoughts swam through my head. How sanitary is the automatic flush, really? Is it actually better than the manual flush if the bum gets splattered by the force of a flush so powerful it could swallow the contents of Mary Poppins’ bottomless bag?

With sustainability making its way into the world today, I considered the possibility that an automatic-flush toilet saves water. But then I remembered that the toilet decided to flush three times during my brief visit; once when I entered the stall, once before I was ready to throw in the towel (so to speak), and once when I actually rose from the occasion.

Just as I became certain that the automatic-flush toilet was not an improvement over its manual predecessor, I remembered the dance. This is the activity that takes place when the task is complete, but the porcelain gatekeeper won’t let your friend(s) through. And since you can’t very well leave without wishing them a proper farewell, you attempt to activate the gatekeeper.

A few waves of the hand, shortly followed by some up-and-down movement…all behind closed doors…and you are on your way. It’s only a matter of minutes before you join the likes of John Travolta and Ginger Rogers. Before you know it, you have secretly vowed to execute the splits if that will make the damn toilet flush. Suddenly, you have become prisoner in a public restroom stall.

In conclusion, I am not sold on the automatic-flush toilet. If anyone thinks otherwise, speak now or forever hold your pee..ace.

Soundtrack of My Life

As we shoved forkfuls of delicious southern-style food into our mouths, our discussion somehow wandered down memory lane. There we were, sitting around the same picnic-style table in the same kitchen of the same historic house, only eight years later. The stories that tied us together all those years ago were still prominent in our memory banks, and enjoyed once again. It was then that our past grasped on to musical representation.

Excited about the idea, we happily debated back and forth regarding the song best suited to represent each of the summers we experienced as co-workers. After much laughter, we agreed to disagree and moved forward with the conversation. But, the idea of annual song representation remained an intriguing one; one that was never quite forgotten. So when another friend of mine recently wrote a Facebook Note with a similar concept, my mind decided to play along.

Which songs would make up the soundtrack of my life? While this task seemed like an enjoyable one when first acknowledged, it swiftly became an overwhelming mental project. How could I possibly pick the appropriate song, one that would accurately summarize three-hundred-and-sixty-five days, for each year of my existence? With so many songs to choose from, including those not yet experienced, I was bound to pick wrong.

The first mental scan for this daunting project produced the following, and not in numerical order: Born in the USA by Bruce Springsteen (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m7XLeYMUZY4&feature=related), Beer Run by Todd Snider (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pyCPhIjmk-s), Landslide by Fleetwood Mac (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CX6WHvxTYHs) and Carolina in My Mind by James Taylor (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QNjLUPqckWY). The second questionable scan produced hilarious, even inappropriate, considerations and, of course, alterations to some of the initial candidates for compact disc inclusion. After much thought, I decided that this task was not worth the effort I would likely exert into the final product. The entertainment factor, I’m afraid, would quickly turn into one of accuracy. Even as I say that, however, I recognize that there is no “right” soundtrack for Rachelle. Because each moment I experience brings with it a new perspective on life that, in turn, alters my perceptions of my past. Therefore, ultimately, resulting in an ever-changing soundtrack; one that would take a lifetime to get "right."

Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow

Everywhere I go, I find it. It’s almost impossible to ignore it. My car, the floor of my apartment, the chair at my workplace, and my clothes all have this in common; loose strands of my hair. I am not exactly sure when this started becoming more of a “situation,” but it has definitely escalated since the strands have gotten longer.

Maybe the length just makes it a more noticeable deposit. Regardless, this sizable loss of physical attribute makes me wonder if it’s normal. Should I really be able to stuff a pillow with my monthly losses, or try my hand at Build-a-Bear…with my hair?! Granted, I may be exaggerating slightly with the afterlife possibilities of my shiny string-like accumulations, but maybe not by much.

As I picked off yet another strand of blondish, organically shampooed and conditioned hair from my jet black fleece, I realized something of great magnitude. I can never commit a crime. Not that I have any desire to do so, but from a CSI perspective, it would not be in my best interest. The amount of DNA I deposit on a daily basis, through the shedding of hair alone, is enough to consider me for the sequel to Hansel and Gretel. The detectives could follow my trail of hair all the way to California and back. In short, I haven’t got a chance.

While I have not yet decided on a solution to this growing frustration, I have weighed out my options. There is, of course, shaving my head entirely. But, to be honest, that is not even an option I would consider at this time. Another possibility is to permanently wear a swim or shower cap. Or, maybe, I could just wear my hair in a bun all day…every day. Huh.

Even though I am slightly intrigued by the reactions I would produce sporting a swim or shower cap twenty-four-seven, I do not see myself adopting any of these solutions mentioned above in an effort to reduce my unintentional litter. I guess I can continue to ponder this “situation” and the creative ways in which it might be remedied. In the meantime, I will continue my lifestyle as a hunter and gatherer, cleaning up after myself, and be grateful to have hair on my head. Knowing I have that to brush to the side makes the side effect of its cyclical loss even easier to brush aside.

Planting a Seed

Several years ago, I bought a variety packet of wildflower seeds. The desire to grow something, at the time, was fairly strong so I didn’t hesitate at the purchase. As I sprinkled the seeds into the pot of soil, I proceeded to visualize their potential. Not only was I eager to see which flowers would emerge, but curious as to the quantity and their timeline for maturity. Will all the seeds grow into flowers? Will some grow more quickly than others? Will the growth of some restrict others’ progress?

Unexpectedly, I find that I’m once again asking myself these very same questions, but in an entirely different context. As an advisor of a student organization, I am fortunate to work with a variety of students. And, like a packet of wildflower seeds, each one has potential. So, I would like to assume, with the proper care, these students will blossom into the flowers they are meant to be. If I follow the directions on the back of the packet, or in the Student Organization Handbook, I should produce a beautiful display of wildflowers. Right?

But how do I know when I’ve watered too much? How do I know when they’ve had too much sunshine or, possibly, not enough? How do I know if I’ve helped or hindered their growth? How much of the result is my efforts compared to the seed itself?

The packet doesn’t come with a guarantee, and neither does a student. Sometimes even the right conditions aren’t enough. And even those, although intended, aren’t always likely. All I can do is continue to nurture the best I know how, and hope that the seeds find exactly what they need from the mix of nutrients, and dismiss what they don’t, to blossom into greatness.