Backpacks and Blinders

All the other kids hand in their homework. But I stay back. My cheeks flush and the bottom drops out of my belly. My assignment has somehow crawled out of my backpack and sought refuge on the kitchen table. It's that same feeling that creeps over me now as I glance from the wrapped salmon filet on the market counter to my bag and discover: the coffee table has snatched my wallet. I shift my weight and apologize. “Ah, no problem! Take it. Come back tomorrow and pay.” If only my math teacher ever felt that way. The next day, I deliver my credit card to the fish guy who looks a little puzzled. I remind him. His eyebrows shoot up, “Oh, oh yes! You came back!” In college once, a girlfriend and I tossed around words we thought our friends would be remembered by years from then. “It might not be that exciting, but you’d be known as reliable. I mean, when you say you’re gonna do something, you always do it.”

Whatever I say yes to, I sling that thing on my back, tighten the straps and adopt it as part of my own weight – for better or for worse. Even if it’s a dog.

Ferg and I had just begun to master the art of road trips. Last fall, we snaked along the East Coast in search of a new home. I had diligently plotted a handful of explorable areas that seemed to check my long list of boxes, according to Google.

Thrilling, exciting, and … daunting. Laden with pressure I expertly piled on top. To help lighten the load, I looked to a guide I have trusted for more than seven years as a co-pilot in mapping my journey forward: my life coach, Rebecca. What happens, we wonder, if we layer a lighter intention onto this trip? What screams more fun than rehab? As in, witnessing a nurturing touch envelop a creature with so much compassion that it bounces back to well deserved life? This is the magic of endangered species rehabilitation – a fascinating world clutching my curiosity. And so I decided: Ferg and I would explore sea turtle sanctuaries at every stop of the trip. Because, soul contract. Our map took shape as I marked turtle hospitals, aquariums and conservation centers along our route to ensure we always had something to root us. Upon landing along the southern coast of North Carolina, as predicted, my squirrel brain erupts and tunnel vision ensues: How’s the grocery store? Do we like the grocery store? What do people’s yard signs say? What does that say about them? How old are people? Can I make friends here? Enough diversity? Tree diversity? Plant diversity? Must be quiet but is this too quiet? Do we really want to live by gators? Nice beach. But needs some rocks. What kind of rocks? OKAY BUT CAN WE LIVE HERE? Sometimes blinders are helpful. And sometimes they are exhausting. I jump on the phone with Rebecca because this is supposed to be fun and explorative and purposeful but all I feel is volcanic pressure. We agree: what if we just surrender to what is instead of what it’s “supposed to be?” I allow my soggy, tired eyes to refocus and gaze toward our adventure site for tomorrow: Bald Head Island, which houses an entire conservancy protecting sea turtles. I also discover: Only accessible by ferry. No cars. Golf carts recommended.

I peer at Ferg. Good thing you’re little.

We wait in line for our ferry tickets the next morning, his 22 pounds nestled securely to my back in a sportsack. The little kid behind me points at us with his red plastic shovel. Mommy! Look, a doggie! A shy teen perks up on the dock when she sees us. Ohmygod. Is he real?! Can I like, touch him? There are lovers and friends and vacationers and retired couples waiting for the boat. We are the most unlikely duo. Throughout that year, I practice the art of donning a different pair of blinders – ones that block the snark of pointing and laughing and stares at a ridiculous dog in a bag. Blinders that help me focus on experiencing true joy together, however different it looks. This is our trip as a little family in our own way.

That same fear of ridicule flutters back when we disembark and pick up our golf cart. But it quickly dissolves as I perch Ferg next to me and look at his pink tongue peeking out between folds of scruffy beard. We are made for adventuring, dammit. We zoom around the island, stop for hikes, gaze at very fancy vacation homes and marvel at pathways carved beneath tree canopies. Meandering magic engulfs us. Belly laughs erupt. This is light! Silly! Free! Beep beep. Is this what it means to play?

We get so enchantedly lost in ourselves that when I read the “closed for private event sign” taped to the conservancy door, all I do is shrug. Turtles another day. We throw the cart in park, shuffle down the vine-covered boardwalk and turn to see a scene that steals my breath: gleaming, uninterrupted beach beneath a dancing tide. The sparkles wink at us. We squat on the shelf carved out of sand, the rhythm of crystal blue waves mimicking the pulse of our sweaty little hearts.

We will not leave that island knowing the place of our next home, or when we'll move, or who will be there to greet us. But for now, it pays to come back – to sitting, to breathing, to soaking up what’s right in front of us. Can’t we just rely on that?

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