the dirt + the drought
a 2024 summer series || pt. iii
“The problem with the Meeks,” my husband told me as we (I) sadly made our way out of Savannah at the end of our family vacation, “is that you treat every goodbye like it’s the very last. And then you get really sad and depressed about the moment being over, and you forget to look forward to all that’s to come. It’s like, you’re reading a book and it’s over and you’ll never get to experience that book again. Except, your entire life is that book, and it’s not over. You only finished a chapter, or maybe even a paragraph. And there’s still so many more chapters to come. In fact, you’ve got another chapter with your family next week!”
I couldn’t help but laugh. Convoluted as this concept was, he was right.
There I was in the passenger seat, sipping my iced coconut mocha, pointing out all of the places we didn’t visit, the things we didn’t see, the photos I didn’t take, the food I didn’t eat. We had had a fantastic and fun week - more time than it felt possible to fill - and yet now, it was over, and all I could think about was the fact that it was over. And I wasn’t ready to leave my island just yet.
I’d done a fine job of listening to the ocean and using my sunscreen while I enjoyed the warmth of the beach. I’d written a whole two pages in my journal. I’d delighted in birds, tiny crabs, and even baby alligators. I’d talked and laughed and ate good food. I’d followed my rules, and yet I still couldn’t crush this feeling that I hadn’t done enough. That I still hadn’t figured out what it all meant. That I still didn’t know what to write when I got back.
But alas, there were more exciting chapters to come, so I could procrastinate a little longer. It was actually less than a week before we were off on another adventure - this time to rural Ohio to witness our first dirt track race at Eldora Speedway.
It was an immediate culture shock - one that felt like I was exactly where I was supposed to be and exactly where I should not. In a tense political climate, where everything is expected to be black and white, I had found myself on the wrong side, where “Let’s Go Brandon” and “Tits Out” flags flew high behind golf carts driven by drunk bros and parked RVs housing leathery, shirtless men sunbathing in short shorts.
At my core, I knew who and what these people were voting for. I knew they probably didn’t care about reproductive rights, racism, or gun control and were certain that Trump remains as innocent as Jesus. I knew we weren’t on the same page about much of anything, aside from the fact that my liberal husband also loves fast cars and dirt and that’s what we’d come for and that’s why we’d stay. Just like them, I had every right to be there, and gosh darn it, I was going to have some fun. Politics could ruin things later.
So I put on my safety glasses and held my bandana up to protect my airways from the flying dust. I bought a cute souvenir sweatshirt and a bucket of fries. I got invested - and my parents, quite surprisingly, did too. Once we entered those gates, the polarizing flags were gone. Everyone was there for the dirt track, wearing colorful shirts emblazoned with the names and artwork representing their favorite drivers. It was a good time. It was a positive time. It was a uniting time, existing somewhere in a political grey area that allowed for the much-coveted presence I was longing for. In fact, it wasn’t all that dissimilar from CMA Fest, which I was missing for the first time in years. It was exciting and thrilling and fascinating until…
WHAM.
Something hit me square in the jaw.
We were at least 50 feet back from the track, which was surrounded by a high fence. It felt like a rock, but there was none to be seen. Had the party boys next to us thrown a can of beer? No, that couldn’t be found, either. The only possible explanation was that, somehow, a clod of dirt had flown up from the track, over the fence, and into my face.
I held my own cold can of beer up to prevent any swelling, and as my family began to realize what had happened, I burst into tears. (shocker)
I’d went to a dirt race and, much as I sought positivity, it was the dirt that won. As in, it actually left a small bruise, as if someone had uppercut my face in a boxing ring. I wore it like a badge of honor - Hey, did you hear about what happened to me last week? - and having something to laugh about took the sting out of reality.
I’d offered myself a break from job hunting while I traveled and tried to enjoy myself. I kept seeking the elusive void, the pure presence, the island. But when that’s all you can think about, it’s hard to find - it has to hit you naturally, pun intended.
By this point, we were entering the “busy” season at work. The grass was growing faster than you could cut it and, despite our numbers not being quite where we wanted them to be, writers would be coming. So I did what I do best and kept my head down, working hard. I wanted to make it beautiful for them. I tired easily, but kept working, and when I got home, I just hung out and tried to relax. I didn’t search for jobs. I didn’t worry about the future. I could only worry about getting through each day.
But the truth is, this was kind of a miserable way of going about things. Something just didn’t feel right. And every once in a while, it would hit me square in the jaw, but most often, it was just a nagging sensation - in my head, in my chest, in my calves. I was “hurt” so often I didn’t even know where the scratches and bruises were coming from. Nevertheless, I persisted.
Drought is a word that was both dramatic and true. I don’t know exactly when the rain stopped, but it did, and then it just never seemed to come back. The lush green grass of our pastures became dry and burnt. Leaves began to fall and trees began to change in an unseasonal fashion. The thought of a leisurely walk after work felt like yet another chore. Personally, I began to spend more and more time indoors, whenever I could. My energy was entirely zapped. Between the hours of 9 and 4, I would work myself to the bone, then come home to shower and collapse on the couch. It wasn’t even something I enjoyed, but it felt like all I could do. Turn on the TV, scroll through my phone, witness the beautiful, breezy lives of others, and lament over the newly itchy raised spots on my wrists - ant bites? poison oak? Only time would tell.
July passed slowly, and I would set up my laptop in the shade of the patio to try typing up a few words about the summer’s activities. I had so much to say, and so much inability to say it “right.” I would scroll through old drafts and discover timely posts that were no longer so timely. I thought back to the joys of May and June - Cicadas! Savannah! Dirt Tracks! Drive-In Movies! Where had it all gone? What was next?
I was beginning to sense that I was losing myself. I’d suspected it for a while, but my own personal drought was becoming difficult to ignore. Was it the heat? Was it my job? Was it simply my anxiety around the future? I felt dirty all the time. I couldn’t create. I didn’t know where to go next. I didn’t know what would fix it, but all signs slowly pointed towards the Olympics.
Ah, the Olympics. An international show of strength, resilience, and passion, taking place in a gloriously old city rooted in art and culture. From the open-minded messaging of love and acceptance in the Opening Ceremony, to its touch-of-pink branding, to the positivity that radiated between competitors and the joy we were suddenly experiencing in watching sports (sports?!), it all felt like an escape. As we began to spend even more time in front of the TV, I suddenly felt a familiar glistening - could it be? Inspiration? I might not have been able to put my thoughts and feelings into my own writing or art, but I could sure as heck fill in the tiny spaces on a paint by numbers canvas while I watched Steve dominate the pommel horse.
It’s the little things, always, like raindrops to a flood. And it was coming just in time.