the mini pooper

though we knew the mini was packed full,
it brought more to the island than we were aware of.

aside from our overnight bag for three days of driving,
herb's computer equipment,
and odds and ends like a yoga mat and bikes helmets,
the mini cooper was apparently weighed down
for 1700 miles
with all of our shit.

"a lot of people move here, but leave after two years",
said marcus, our new acquaintance that herb met
last weekend while cheering on the red wings at the bar.
marcus is apparently a fan of good hockey and good beer.
he is also a bit of a wandering free spirit who happens to teach yoga
and work for the fire department.
it is his eccentricity that actually makes him quite normal on this island.

"people think they are coming here to escape their shit", he continued,
"but they don't realize that the energy and the pull of the water
seems to just reflect it right back to them."

"are you a therapist?", i boldly asked,
knowing that only if he was a thearpist
would this question be received well.

"a therapist?!?!", marcus looked confused and maybe slightly offended.

nope. not a therapist.

"oh, well i am. and you speak like a therapist."
and then, to try and regain some ground from the embarassing moment,
i consciously get into a "one up" position,
"i thought you were one of my people."

marcus replied, "no. not a therapist. i am a yoga instructor.
but can i be one of your people? can we all be the same people?"

it became clear. marcus is not a therapist.
and it is becoming clear
that it isn't just the water around here that mirrors shit.

and in that moment, i didn't really like marcus.

who is marcus reflect . . . to expose . . . my tendency to label people; myself and others.
my desire to know where i stand; to know where you stand.
and to make sure we all know that we know where we all stand.
he irritated my method of operating.
suggesting we are all the same people; all the same.
it didn't feel good.
that kind of audacious suggestion causes me to wonder,
"if we are all the same, then who am i?
and if i am no different than you,
no better than you,
am i important?"

i found myself talking about marcus for the rest of the evening.
for as much as he irritated me, i wanted he and his partner laura
to come for dinner.
i wanted to build them a bon fire
and show them our kayak
and feed them gluten-free fruit cobbler.

marcus came up again in conversation yesterday.
herb and i spent most of the day yesterday trying to put him back together.
we knew it would come at some point.
most likely the end of this week or next.
a melt down.
a freak out.
a "what in the hell are we doing here" fit of rage.
what we didn't expect is that it would be him, and not me.

just like me,
herb brought his shit to orcas island
and yesterday, as he reflecetd on the wisdom of
marcus the "can't we all be the same people" yogi con fire fighter,
it became clear that this trip was concocted not to relieve him of his shit
but rather to highlight it.
and highlighted it was.

neither of us saw this coming.

and it is not really for me to write about in detail.
not because it is shit that is any shittier than your shit or mine.
after all, we are all the same people with the same shit.
right?
it is not humiliating or shameful.
but i won't write all about it because it is not my shit.

which brings me to a shit-filled delima of my own.
what do you do when your spouse is busted up and broken down
and you can't fix it?
not because you are not capable,
but because he needs to work it through himself?

because in my house, i am discovering, growing up,
there was a certain need we had for everyone to be okay.
because we cared about them, sure.
but also because if they were okay,
that meant we were okay.
i believe there are entire texts written on this particular brand of shit.

they like to call it co-dependancy.

marcus might call it being human.

so while herb deals with his shit,
i must struggle with my need for him to be okay
in order to know that i am okay.
to find a way to know i am me and i am okay
even as he is fumbling around and trying to find his way.