The Rage

Energy was low. I felt like heavy flesh characterized by heavy emotion. A walk in the forest ended up being an uncomfortable uphill slog, my heart beating intensely. I tried seeking comfort, distraction, something. My organism was compulsive, lost in a fog of automation. Awareness and sovereignty was beyond concept, beyond experience.

Hilariously, these things were a result of judgement of my journey, I think I am in week two or three, it is hard to tell. I look back on those days and really see that I was just getting started, this was the teething process, the relearning of life on four wheels. My idealistic visions of what it is supposed to be like, however, kept me imprisoned.

The famous John Lennon quote, actually by Allen Saunders: “Life is what happens to you while you’re busy making other plans” extends to this experience. Essentially, I was creating expectations on what life should be like, I was planning, and getting silently frustrated when the rug pull of expectation occurred. Being present means here and now, this moment devoid of future fantasy, and in its purest form is ever-new bliss. But hey, we’re human.

The heat, also, was uncomfortable. I chose a camp for two nights near a freshwater creek and frequently took dips. My desires leading me to cooler locations. Tomorrow morning, I told myself, I will head high into the Snowy Mountains of Victoria.

Up, and up, and up. The van kept a low gear, dragging those four tons of steel, wood, and possessions skyward as multitudes of other drivers were stuck in the rear. The higher I climbed, the lower the temperature became. The tall forest gave way to a plateau of tundra founded by vertically cut, red and yellow mountain stone. I passed through ski resorts, long lift cables striated the slopes, grand, bland wooden complexes stood tall and waited for winter guests.

I seemed to peak at two kilometres above sea level and then began the slow and windy slalom downhill. The forest returned, and with it fell a thick fog. The temperature dropped and I pulled over to one side to experience the shifting mists of Dinner Plains. I lifted my face and let the opaque air wash over me.

Just down the road was a trailhead for bushwalking and a good flat grassy spot for the van. I parked and considered staying for a few nights. I did this and relished the single digit overnight temperatures.

And yet, I was dissatisfied. As in the first paragraph, I felt heavy and uncomfortable. My emotions were thick and confusing. What was this? I thought I was free and living my best life (read ideal) on the road?

Down the hill and onto the flats of South Eastern Victoria. I began to notice a squeak coming from the wooden interior frame of the van. Every bump and wiggle would be a piercing chirp from behind the driver’s seat. I tried reaching over and pushing on the frame, I tried thumping it with the side of a closed fist as my other gripped the wheel – nothing resolved the noise, and it was really getting to me.

I pulled over and got the drill out to secure the frame with a few screws. I could only tell if it worked by driving again so I started off down the road. The squeak remained. I stopped at the next intersection, pulled over and tried a different technique, no change. The noise was taunting me, and I was getting angrier and angrier. Another stop, another attempt, another failure. I got driving again and a few hundred metres the nails-on-chalkboard squeak returned. Frustration turned into anger, and like a vast lava filled volcano, turned into rage. I blew up and screamed until my throat tore in agony, with both hands on the wheel, I let loose all my anger, all my rage.

My eyes pierced in passionate intensity, my nostrils flared, my chest heaving, my vocal chords vibrating frantically. The squeaky cabinetry dwarfed by my screams. I took a breath, there was a feeling of satisfaction, of assertion and confidence. This release bought focus and clarity to existence, and I felt the fog of emotion clear like a misty mountain warmed by the morning sun.

The squeak squeaked, and I thanked it. I reached back to pat the wall, my hand fell on a lower area, and the noise stopped. I kept driving over bumps with my hand placed on the spot. No noise ensued. There was silence.

I stopped at the next available park and repaired the joint.

From this grand release came a lightness and clarity, my heart opened, my eyes softened, I smiled. I pressed play on some music and the shuffle bought songs I could sing along to. The clouds parted and I trundled along in happiness and song.

The worthwhile challenge of being in a constant witnessing state can invite the questions “What am I feeling right now? What is asking to be expressed right now? What do I need right now?”

What are you feeling right now?