Choosing to Stay in Texas
“You can always tell a Texan, you just can’t tell ‘em much.” Willie Nelson
“Forests are like churches, hallowed places. There’s a stillness about them, a sort of reverence.” ~Sabrina Elkins
Resettling into life in Austin, Texas, means living a split screen. One side is the calling to the brittle weave of the Texas woods and the singing waters that run through it. The other part is a sprawling distance, populated by over-zealous Ford 150’s in the fast lane. I make plans to sit in the quiet of the forests here, and then I get into my car. We all live this duality, I tell myself – the longing of the soul and the obligations of the day.
Rural Route 620 is one giant on ramp to freeways, that aren’t free, and highways, that are high, elevated hundreds of feet in the air, but even the height doesn’t slow the traffic. Cars and trucks speed across the dust of old Southern politics, decisions and indecisions, leaving clouds of coughing and uncertainty. I prefer the rural routes and the back roads; the gritty look of familiar taco trucks and barbeque stands that litter the road. Sandwiched between signs and booths for Fredericksburg Peaches, is the occasional vendor selling bleached long horn skulls, spread out on a blanket. And all the while, the Texas sun beats down and beats up the unrelenting asphalt ribbons that promise a destination “five miles up and on your right.” I have yet to arrive.
Between the lines of commerce and convenience, the road edges up to gated neighborhoods, with manicured lawns and tiled roofs that rise and fall behind Home Depots. I pass a strip mall-- slightly hidden by trees that some merciful developer left in place-- and catch a glimpse of the coffee shop where Jeanne and I met for so many years. Heads practically touching, we sat close; huddled over notes and laptops, writing, planning, solving the riddles of our lives. And when we hugged goodbye it was never a goodbye, until she moved away and I felt like a little piece of a that highway dust wondering how to become more of itself. For some friendships there will never be replacements, only a prayer for rain to wash everything clean and make it new again.
I can’t hear the rural routes or highways from where I live. In the front yard I have a view of Lake Austin, winding it’s narrow current through the canyoned hills. In the back yard-- a Texas wood of Live Oak, Spanish Oak, Cedar and rogue rosemary. Recently in a fleeting dream I stood before a tall, arched church window, from which I could see the thick green of the summer forest around me, and I heard a voice whispering in my ear, “this is my temple,” it said. A dream of the obvious, echoing what I already know.
This land was once ocean bottom. Long before the gentrification and the lattice of highways, it was home to Comanches and Tonkawas. I fear I have spent a lifetime trying to get to an elusive somewhere. It’s not out there. The destination I seek has no street number or marker. It’s buried beneath the old ocean floor, rooted in grandmother trees, and lingering in the deep friendships of a scattered tribe-- seeds into the wind.
ancient women
dance in the bone caves
pounding out their somethingness
into nothingness
that’s how you get back
to the stuff of stars
The dull rumble of highways and electrical lines border my life here, but in the back yard, a yellow moon filters through rustling oaks, where I imagine life beyond commerce; imagine a greater tribe still dreaming.
I dive into the cracks of this ancient seabed, breathing in the energy of these once native lands. I follow the back roads and rural routes that carve up this place. The temple I long for, is the one that rises in my heart -- a heart that knows the beauty of the Texas woods, but is starting to open to the beauty of unlikely places-- taco trucks, barbeque stands, skulls bleached by the sun.
Something greater wanted me to stay here; to craft words on a page and live without leaving anything out. Drive to Pilates. Make the grocery run. Commit to memory, the weathered face of an old man selling bleached long horn skulls at the side of the road. I will both lose and find myself in ancient forests. Call in Luna, the feminine name for moon. Hold her steady in your sight-- then tell me:
What do you feel most called to create in this season, in these times, in this moment of a split screen life.
To some of the tribe of courage and consciousness that I’ve met here on Substack, I am grateful to be in your orbit:
Kindness is what I am called to create. To counter the conscious cruelty our government delights in, but also because kindness is what cracks me open. Always. I know when I am kind (rescuing yet another beetle from the swimming.pool, pulling a busy mother's beach chair away from the incoming tide as I walk by and her hollered "thank you", telling the little one petting my dog that I love their sparkly nail polish, a passing stranger saying "you have great hair") the world is a bigger and better place. I fill my day with these, creating as much kindness as I can and appreciating it when I see it in others.
Your ability and sheer determination to "mine the meaning" out of this decision is in itself a gift to us who read your posts...thank you. Trust the ripples that vibrate outward from the plop of this stone in your own pond. I do believe that those of us who work to communicate/community are being strategically "placed" to hold space for kindness and civility in these times. Whatever that larger strategy is...you/Austin/the beauty of that hill country/nature, and the interactions when you enter the social field are living within it. Thank you. Sure hope I get to meet you someday.