Little Delving
Beyond Here There Be Dragons
A Good Cup Of Coffee In Mt. Shasta
Apr 06, 2007 06:36 PM Filed in:
Stories For A
Friend
Outside the big window the wind blows the rain sideways. The town streets are empty except for the occasional truck stopping at the light, windshield wipers going, waiting for the light to change green to go. It's cold and raw for a late summer day. More autumn than summer really, but in the Northwest the weather can sometimes take on a character all its own, assert its personality and make the day into something you're not quite expecting.
Or is this the Northwest anymore? He's not really sure.
This morning he woke up in Ashland, got in his car and drove south up and over the mountains down into California for the first time in his life because it seemed like the thing to do. Mt. Shasta, CA. Somewhere new. A new town. A new state. Someplace he had never been before. But is it The Northwest or is it The West? He wonders as he sips his coffee and looks out at the storm. Something to consider. Where does the Northwest stop and the West begin? He doesn't know. How is one to know?
Seattle is home and that is the Northwest. The Pacific Northwest actually. But somewhere this weekend on the way south to Ashland, Oregon did he lose the Pacific and enter the Northwest? Where in Oregon could this have happened? And if it did happen, how could he have missed it? How could you lose the Pacific and not even notice? Is he now as lost on this road as he is in Life? Well, maybe he wasn't always lost, but for sure these past few years. Exactly when it started is hard to tell, but for sure these last two years have felt like a loss. Somewhere back there he crossed a line and didn't notice, another boundary passed in the night and not seen, another road sign missed. Lost.
Yep. Just like that. It happens. And here he sits now musing about another boundary missed. Somewhere along his way this weekend he left the Pacific Northwest and crossed into The Northwest, or possibly even The West, but where? A mystery. Without a map, it's a total mystery. Just like Life. If only there was a map for his life he could look it over and figure out where he took the wrong turn, where he crossed over that boundary line he never intended to cross, and where he is now in this god forsaken emotional wilderness and which way he can turn to get back Home.
If only he could.
Well, a long weekend in Ashland seemed like as good a place to start as any. Many hours away from Seattle and his life. Far from it all. Room to breathe. Room to think. That's what he needed. The festival was the perfect excuse, an escape, and something he'd wanted to do for many years. The long drive south and the solitude, the handful of plays, Lear and Henry V, Our Town and Twelfth Night, it all came together to open this door in his mind. It freed him somehow. He felt free to ask the questions he'd been afraid to ask, the questions he needed to ask of himself.
And the answers? God, who knows? Yes, the answers are what he needs, but right now, just asking the questions is a big enough mountain to scale. It's all he can handle. It's a start. The answers can wait. Once the questions are asked, the answers will come, in time. The answers are inevitable.
"Want some more coffee?"
"Yeah, thanks. I think one more shot will do me." The waitress fills the cup back to the brim with the steaming, dark brew. She moves on to the next table, and he holds the warm cup in his hands. He cups it in his hands, and he breathes in the warmth and the aroma. It fills his senses. He feels it wrapping him in its warmth like a thick blanket. The coffee is good. It smells of Home.
Not Seattle, not that home.
He loves Seattle, but now it's all lost, confused in a jumble of the fighting and the pain, the accusations, the blame, the confusion and the guilt. It's a Wasteland. No home there anymore. He knew that. Once the questions are asked, the answers are inevitable. He knew that, and it scared him. He was afraid, and for years now that fear had cowed him, and so he was lost. A Lost Boy. And then one day he woke up and felt the call of the road. It was time. And so he jumped in the car and drove 500 miles away to breathe. To think. To try to find the will to screw his courage to the sticking place and confront himself, to ask who he had become, to ask how he had gotten here.
God, where was the bloody map when you needed it? It was time to ask the questions, and there was no map in sight. He was sitting in a diner in Mt. Shasta, California, 500 miles from home with no idea of whether he was in The West or The Northwest, and it was raining sideways, and he couldn't find the map. He was lost. But the coffee was good. And it smelled of Home. Not Seattle home, but Home, back in the life he had before he was lost, back to where he wanted to find his way again if he could. Surely he could. There must be a way to get there from here?
Mt. Shasta is one of the most beautiful mountains in the world. He had always heard that. And so when he woke up this morning in Ashland with time on his hands and questions on his mind, and he realized how close he was to California, a place he had never been, and to Mt. Shasta, a mountain he had never seen, the call of the road took over again. He jumped in the car and drove south up over the mountains and down into The West to see what he would see and find what he would find. And what he found was this storm and rain blowing sideways, pregnant blue-grey clouds hanging low over the town, and no mountain anywhere to be seen.
So he pulled into this roadside diner and claimed the empty table by the window where he could look out at Life and think. He made small talk with the waitress, drank her good coffee, and he looked out the window at his life. You see, the Mountain was there. He knew it was. And it was beautiful, he knew that too. It was close, and yet hidden. He couldn't see it, but it was there somewhere behind all these clouds and the rain. He drank his coffee and thought about it some more. It niggled at his brain, and it poked at him. If something as big as a mountain could be right there in front of him and yet out of sight, what else was he missing? What else was there that he was failing to see clearly? Maybe the changes he needed, the path to the new life he needed was also out there somewhere just beyond his sight? He might not have a map in front of him to tell him exactly where it was, where he was, but that mountain was there. He just had to wait for the clouds to clear to find it. Maybe the way Home was there too? He could smell it in the coffee, warm memories of peace and comfort. and of love and belonging, of purpose. Just out there, somewhere. If he could find his way past the rain and the clouds, maybe he could find it again? It was a comforting thought.
"So what comes next?" he asked his empty cup. No answer. He threw a couple of bucks and some change on the table and pulled on his rain shell.
"Thanks. That was good coffee."
"You're welcome. Come in out of the rain anytime."
Outside the wind tore at him and the rain beat on him. It darted into the small gaps of clothing and down his neck as he pulled himself into his car and closed the door. Shelter from the storm. He starts the car and slowly pulls out onto the main street of town. The light is red, and so he sits looking out the windshield through the rain and the wind waiting for the light to change to green.
What comes next?
Up ahead, just over the entrance ramp to I-5, he reads the road sign, North I-5 to Seattle 542 miles, South I-5 to San Francisco 275 miles. San Francisco, a place he has never been before. The thought hangs there in his mind, pregnant, like the blue-grey clouds that hang over the town. North, Seattle, 542 miles. South, San Francisco, 275 miles.
And he smiles.
He can still smell the coffee, and out there somewhere, not far away at all, is a beautiful mountain. He knows it because he's asked himself the questions that he was afraid to ask. The questions are out there now, and the answers will follow. And he smiles because for the first time in a long time he doesn't feel so lost. He doesn't know where he is exactly, but he has an idea of where he needs to go. He's not lost, and that's something.
The light changes to green, and with a small wave good-bye to the diner, he pushes down on the gas and pulls away. It's only a small first step, and there are rough times ahead for sure, but he's on his way Home. Map or no map, he knows he's on his way. He can smell it now. Like that good cup of coffee.