Many of our trips are spontaneous events–hunches of the moment.  Yet, even with advance notice, I am often reluctant to work at vacationing.  Why should planning leisure demand labor?  All Rick and I need is time together, preferably in nature.  While our couple-friends conduct month-long phone interviews, toil over brochures, and consult experts; we chose our honeymoon destination by looking for green areas on a map of Oregon.   Our intuitions plan our trips.  Unfortunately, we haven’t always liked their plans.

          I talk on the phone with the owner of a B&B.  She sounds sweet, but when we arrive, she barely says a word, dashing in to bring us breakfast, then rushing away with a strained smile of resentment.  We feel like intruders instead of guests.  Another time, I confidently make hotel reservations with the clerk who describes the bountiful breakfast.  But the hotel is stingy:  our room has no phone, no clock, no television remote–no pictures on the walls!  When planning a biking trip, I trust the helpful woman at the chamber of commerce.  Should I have sensed that her “gently sloping roads” were a fiction and her map would prove unreadable?   Instead of a leisurely ride, we encounter brutally steep hills, phantom streets signs, and sudden dead-ends. 

          Yet each of our adventures ultimately leads us to an unforeseen perfection.  Dehydrated and lost on those steep, unmarked country roads, a stranger rescues us from our biking dilemma.  He drives us to a town we had overlooked, with a perfect Bed and Breakfast, a proprietor who caters to our slightest whim, and local Amish who canter by in black buggies.

          “Bad luck” on a trip can lead to wonderful memories.  Nature’s power has often upset our expectations.  When a windstorm interrupts, our simple picnic becomes a magical thrill ride through a gray, moonlit forest of ferocious snapping trees.  When rain pours, we find the crowded hiking trails abandoned and have the stunning waterfalls to ourselves. We’ve found romance while huddling together, discerning how to negotiate canyons during thunderstorms or city streets paralyzed in sudden snow.  These escapades are sometimes beyond our control, not the result of insufficient planning.  For an example of the latter, I need only recall one of the first trips Rick and I took together.               

          A dilapidated downtown of a Midwestern city.   Our friends had rolled their eyes when we told them of our destination.  Now, lost amid seedy, abandoned storefronts, we regret our use of a hotel discount book.  Even the locals have not heard of the “Halley Hotel.”  The few pedestrians we find merely shake their heads when asked for directions.   Finally, a hunched old woman screeches, “The Halley Hotel?  The Halley Hotel?”  With an atonal chant, she repeats the name as an incredulous question or incantation.  “The Halley Hotel?”  She cryptically points and then wanders off, cackling.  Rick and I smile bravely to each other but a palpable fear has entered the car.  What have we done?  What have we created? 

          The Halley Hotel stands on a nondescript thoroughfare of gas stations and fast food joints.  As we enter the lobby and register, we are deafened by an absolute silence.  There are no other guests.  The rooms are clean and well equipped, the pool sparkles–but no one is here. We hunt for other guests, but touring the grounds we see only one movement, a curtain pulled closed.  A guest?  A maid?  Norman Bates?  We recall the shriek and singsong delivery of our hag guide.  We cackle to each other but between laughs, I look behind my back. 

          Halley’s trendy, empty restaurant waits to serve customers who don’t arrive.  The bartender exists only for our two drinks.  The overflowing salad bar goes to waste while the busboy watches our plates.  The moment we put down our forks, he is there, confiscating evidence to justify his existence.  The staff ogles from a distance.  Have we entered the Hotel California?  Or simply the most un-cool place on the planet?  After dinner, we bolt our door and plan an escape.  We need to find a backdrop of other revelers– to help us know we are having a good time. 

          The next day, we drive closer to Lake Michigan and re-encounter civilization.  And booked hotels.  It is a perfect fall day, but instead of walking along the beach, we drive from hotel to hotel, unable to find a room.  Tempers flare.  Blaming commences.  How could we have been so stupid?  Who planned this trip anyway?  We are such losers.  We don’t even like each other.  Why did we plan this idiotic trip?  Minutes turn into hours.  The drive is now silent, tense.  Our lackadaisical planning, our entire character is suddenly suspect.  Why couldn’t we be more like other people?  Everyone else goes to famous places.  They go with the crowds and stay with big names– Hyatt, Marriott.  They don’t pick out destinations by thumbing through a discount book or looking at the green and blue sections on a map!

We are angry, confused, guilt-ridden and tired.

          But as our lamentations continue, we gradually realize that have survived a bad day and each other’s foibles.  We begin to wonder:  perhaps we enjoy the risk of an unplanned trip.  The black cloud passes over the car, and we begin an enactment we have come to revere:  outlandish imitations of the mysterious hag, followed by uncontrollable laughter.

          We finally find a hotel filled with a raucous crowd.  Our prayers have been cruelly answered; we are awash in drunken boaters.  The clerk warns us that the annual boating convention has the entire coast booked.  We observe the screaming, puking revelers and decide to reserve only one night.

          The next day, we discover a tiny artist village and stroll blissfully among the shops.  We have finally found our Eden–a town we will revisit with joy.  But not this evening.  We regretfully get back in the car and drive inland to find our last hotel.  Rick learns how neurotic I am about “wasting time,” and “inefficiency.”  I learn that he is capable of loving me even in my craziest moments.  We practice fighting fair.  We feel closer.

          At long last, our travails lead us to an expansive suite with an oversized jacuzzi and an unbelievable price.  We smile, justified.  All the detours and dead ends were necessary for us to arrive at this incredible space.   We fill up the tub and settle in.  We push the switch but the room begins to rumble with a thundering– not of a whirlpool jet—but a jumbo jet!  We try to relax amid the continuous roar but eventually give up.  The deafening jets are silenced, yielding more laughter. 

          I often lament the imperfection of our vacation plans.  But since Rick and I are free spirits and rebels, I don’t believe we will change our last minute improvising.  Our vistas may not be as stunning, our  accommodations, not as exquisite.  Our cavalier attitude flirts with possible boredom, bad cuisine, and even physical mishap.   Yet despite the dangers, I cherish our alternative routes and all the unexpected beauty, drama, and hilarity they have contained.  Our vacations improve, as I learn to use resources of friends, family, and travel magazines.  Still, it seems Rick and I may always have a proclivity for travel disasters.  Luckily, our disappointments continue to entertain even as they provide grist for our re-creation. 

storiesthatwork.blogspot.com

storiesthatwork.blogspot.com

Have you heard of the website posting dreams people are having about Barack Obama and Hillary Clinton?   Here are the links: 

http://idreamofbarack.blogspot.com/

http://idreamofhillary.blogspot.com/

I can’t imagine the pressure these two are under since all of us are projecting our own psychological issues onto them! 

I tried to get it from my public library (just for research).  No dice.  They had eight copies–all out.  Same with my sister’s library.   On the bestseller list for 33 weeks, the book’s popularity reveals….what?  A gaping wound in our national psyche?  Are we feeling so desperate and incomplete that we hunger for magical powers?     

The Secret claims we can “attract” anything we want, through our thoughts.  If that were true, I’d have won the Pulitzer Prize by now.  Still, psychologists have proven that chipper attitudes can lead to happy results.  Think “self-fulfilling prophecy.” Even some brain scientists confirm:  when we make hopeful statements to ourselves, we train our brains to look for those hoped-for events.    

Just where ordinary (not supernatural) influence begins and ends is debatable.  But, even if we can, through our thoughts (AND actions), create change, are we alone at Life’s helm?  “The Secret” tells me how to get what I want when I want it.  But how do I reconcile my self-absorbed quests with a spiritual path?

For many years, I pursued a career in the theatre.  In addition to hard work (as director, producer, or playwright), I also tried conjuring success through affirmations.  I described in great detail all the awards and acclaim coming to me.   Then, at the peak of these drills, one of my productions was panned in a local paper.   Devastated, I blew out my candles, stopped affirmations, and waited to recover.  I wasn’t merely disheartened with my “create your own reality” program; I found myself reborn to a new and deep humility.  If I believed in God, maybe it was time to surrender to Him (Her)?  Maybe it was time to stop demanding my own will?  

Meanwhile, I was also reading lots of Jungian psychology.  These books said that my conscious will was only one piece of the puzzle.  We create our circumstances, not through magic or mysticism, but through the unconscious behaviors and signals we constantly send out.  Jungian therapists delve into the dreams, coincidences, and events of their clients, to understand these dynamics. 

Yet, Jungians also believe we are not the sole drivers of our fate.  There is a Reality, beyond our control and understanding–the “collective unconscious.”  Jungians don’t need to speak of “God,” but they do talk of yielding to the ‘Self’: the God in us.   So, we must accept responsibility for our actions (and even some outside events), while also adopting a healthy humility.  We admit our small place in the universe. 

What “The Secret” leaves out is this healthy humility.  Following the book’s premises, we’re left isolated in our ego’s tiny self-absorbed world.   

For Jung, our waking consciousness (ego) is like a cork floating on the ocean.  We cannot know this vast reality but we can acknowledge it.  Instead of seeking to control our circumstances, we can follow the more difficult path—surrendering to a Greater Reality, while striving to live responsibly.

I once had a sparrow alight upon my shoulder for a moment, while I was hoeing in a village garden, and I felt that I was more distinguished by that circumstance that I should have been by any epaulet I could have worn.
-  Henry David Thoreau

In a fit of frustration, I left Blogger. While I’m prone to focus more on content than form, (anyone who reads the blog knows this) periodically, I emerge (as if from a deep sleep) and see the design-horror I’ve been driving or inhabiting. 

Then it’s time to clean, or paint, or polish.  In a physical move, I cannot rest until I create a semblance of homey comfort.  I hurriedly unpack all my boxes and get pictures on the walls.  Then I relax again until new insight strikes.

The moving metaphor feels apt.  My psyche has taken up residence in this blog.  My mind spends a ton of time here–writing, tweaking, moving boxes around. 

Just as in many fairy tales, a dilemma (I was trying to create post summaries and couldn’t do it) forces the seeker to a new land.  Most of these stories reassure us that when a door closes, a window opens.  Sure ‘nough.  I spent many frustrating hours battling computer codes but now am grateful.  The blog obviously needed this change!

Thanks to the folks here at WordPress! Seems like a nice neighborhood.  Please forgive the strange formatting glitches on some of the posts below.  I’ve been unpacking in a frenzy but can’t get to it all just now. 

Hard to stay patient with the process.

In the meantime, here’s more zen.

A bird in the hand is a certainty,

but a bird in the tree may sing.

Bret Harte