Laurie Talks About When I Came West
People who know me, or those who have heard my story, often ask, with an incredulous look, “why?” Why would an intelligent, beautiful, talented young lady from a good family give up a conventional suburban life where she was destined for university degrees, a teaching career, marriage to a well-intentioned man and motherhood? Why would she ditch college and take off on a bizarre adventure in the wilderness? Or, they ask, to what do I ascribe my extraordinary ability to cope with a new life of work, danger, pain, distress, and privation?
The answer is simple to me because I look at my life from the inside out, through the window of the heart. One word is all I need: love. Some have said: that’s childish, ridiculous, insane, foolish. But I have only that response: love.
From an early age I knew I was different somehow, that I had an incredible ability to love people and things in the world that others didn’t find very important. I loved my own shyness and sweet nature. I loved solitude and books. I loved the idea of far away places and adventures. I loved the natural world, even in its skimpiest appearances in suburban landscapes and on military bases. I loved the deep mystery of life and the scary territory of romance. I did not really know what I wanted, but I did know what I did not want: an ordinary life. I had an unusually open heart, one with a great capacity for love, which coupled with the sister emotions of trust, tolerance, forgiveness, acceptance, and patience, made me unbelievably vulnerable. That heart was never going to be content pursuing average goals or everyday dreams, nor was it going to allow a slow, suffocating demise in suburbia. And, like most young women, that exquisite heart yearned to be loved by a man who was exceptional, a man who wasn’t afraid to embrace life fully or meet challenges in a passionate way. Maybe the motivation was more than a heart that couldn’t deny its own desire, perhaps the goad was the unrevealed artist in me, or the undiscovered paramour, or the unenlightened soul, but some trigger deep within made me leap at the chance to have a different life.
Did I know that coming West would mean pain, hardship, and privation? Did I know that falling in love with exceptional men would mean hard work, hard choices, and hard knocks? No, I knew nothing. I had a girl’s romantic notion of the West, of the wilderness, of life on the land, of mountain men and cowboys, of wildlife and horses and cattle. But once I “fell headlong” into the experience, I saw no escape. Head-over-heels in love with the land and with the men who had fought to live and stay there on their own terms, I could not give up on the dream, the ideal, the vision, the quest. Even when daily life, year after year, brought distress and heartbreak, I always sought a way to stay.
Many have suggested that I was a bright girl who could have just walked away and started over again. I can only answer, how do you walk away from someone you love or from a way of life you’ve struggled so hard to save? I believed that if I had enough love, patience, fortitude, determination, and grit, that things would work out. That heart of mine was not only filled with love, it was filled with pride. I simply could never give up until there was no hope left with which to continue.
I was, and still am, a foolish woman who lives not by her head, but by her heart. I have believed with every cell of my being in the deep, abiding connection called love. Misguided, naïve, at times incredibly stupid, a girl with no self-preservation gene, I allowed myself the amours and adventures that my heart craved. Today, when the word choice seems to be the catch phrase for everything that harkens to individual destiny, I explain simply and humbly, I felt I had no choice. I fell in love and to that love I gave everything I had to give, many times over. After all, it was never about me, it was about the love.
Reader, you are about to go on a journey. My journey. Don’t be afraid, as I was afraid. Don’t worry about falling, as I fell, many times. I promise to hold your hand because there was no one to hold mine. All you need to bring with you is child-like curiosity, a strong desire to know. That is all I had. Don’t bother with self-direction or a sense of humor. I had neither when I set out. If you are feeling any kind of desperation, that’s good. That’s what drove me—desperation. A desperate desire to be loved and a desperate need to escape. “Escape from what?” people ask. “I don’t know,” I say. Even after thirty years of self-examination and internal probing, I don’t know. I can guess. I am good at guessing, it is the way I’ve gotten through life.
Here is the interview question: “Laurie, you were a straight A student at a private liberal arts college. You were chosen for ‘Who’s Who in American Colleges and Universities.’ You had just been accepted as a transfer student into the prestigious honors program at the University of Chicago. You had a bright and promising future. Why did you leave?”
Here is my best guessing: “At twenty, I was tired of trying. It wasn’t that I couldn’t compete, I could. The fact is I didn’t want to compete, didn’t want to elbow my way up the stupid proverbial ladder to success. I was sick, soul sick. The non-stop noise and constant demands of life on the edge of the city was driving me crazy. I hated being part of a society whose main precept was ‘man’s inhumanity to man’ as evidenced during my high school and college years by the daily dose of news coverage about the war in Vietnam. I longed to be free of everything. I was desperate to escape, to save myself. Escape what? A confusing and unsettled childhood. The trauma of moving fifteen times in twenty years. The aftermath of an angry father. The inane expectations of academic life. A dismal future in the teaching arena that promised nothing but abusive paperwork and ridiculous rules. The crude disappointments of failed romances. The extremely sorry state of young men who were so wounded by what they experienced in Vietnam that they relied on drugs and alcohol to keep their ghosts at bay. Noise and tears. Noise and tears. I was weary of crying over things I could not fix, including myself. I wanted to find a man to hold and comfort me. And I wanted a place of peace and quiet in which I could settle into myself and find a way to belong.”
“Hmmmm,” the interviewer says. “Is that the real truth?”
“No,” I say with great patience, trying to keep the irritated edge from my voice. “The real truth is that I was young, dumb, and did not know. Now I am past fifty and still do not know. If you know where you are going, if you have all the answers, why bother to pack for the journey?”
“Well, then,” the interviewer proceeds to dig, “what motivated you?”
“Fear,” I say as I try to explain. “I was afraid of living and dying in a world that wasn’t real. Terrified of dying before I had a chance to truly live. And love. I wanted to love with my whole being, give my heart to someone who would appreciate me and I wanted to dedicate myself to a way of life that was worthy.”
The interviewer gnaws at my reasoning but cannot swallow my naive idealism. “Why would you choose to stay in unforgiving landscapes with cruel men?”
“Same reasons,” I say. “Fear and love.”
The interviewer raises an eyebrow, so I try again. “Fear of failure and longing for love?”
Another blank stare.
“Don’t you just want to go on this journey with me?” I ask.
“Is there no way in which you can explain why you stayed and how you coped?”
“No. I do not know how to explain. Answers elude me. They always have. That’s why I came West. To look for answers even when I did not know the questions.”
“I’m just trying to better understand who you are, what drives you? Why did you walk away from urban life and all its opportunities? Why did you put up with Bill? Why did you stay, despite him being cold and aloof? Why did you have such a sentimental attachment to the animals? How did you feel when they died or were killed?”
“You’re from the city, aren’t you?” I ask.
“So, you’re saying that I should just read the story?”
“Yes, you’ve got it. That’s it.”
“All right. But I’m wondering first if you could rework the narrative. You know, lean up the prose, cut the verbiage, eliminate compound sentences, get rid of the prepositional and adjectival phrases, avoid the passive voice and awkward syntaxes.”
“I could, but that means you want to hear the story told in the mature voice and polished style of a fifty-year-old. You are not willing to experience the bumps and glitches and struggles of a twenty, thirty, and forty-year-old writer who is trying to find her way. Are you saying you do not want the authentic voice of stories written over a lifetime because they are stylistically flawed?”
“Yes, I mean no, but I would like to have narrative consistency. You have written as if you were thinking or recalling your life, rather than writing crafted for a reader in mind. Could you go back with some basic writing mechanics in hand and revise so that you will bring greater elegance and clarity to your experience?”
“I think you are missing the point. There was no elegance or clarity to my experience.”
“Well, do you think you can ‘step back from the moment’ and reflect upon the meaning of your decisions, experiences, and life in the West?”
“You have a Ph.D., don’t you?”
Ah, I found the right remark to stop the barrage of questions that have no answers. That is why I left the “urban world with all its opportunities.” I was weary of the mindless questions.
Reader, now that the interviewer is out of the way, do you want to go on a journey with me? You will have to put up with “clutter,” “enabling language,” “wordiness,” “convoluted sentences,” and “awkward syntax.” You will have to deal with a woman who is mixed up, uncertain, often foolish, at times stupid, clumsy, misguided, inappropriately dressed, full of idealism, and worrisomely open-hearted. If you are willing to accept those travel conditions, read on.
People who know me, or those who have heard my story, often ask, with an incredulous look, “why?” Why would an intelligent, beautiful, talented young lady from a good family give up a conventional suburban life where she was destined for university degrees, a teaching career, marriage to a well-intentioned man and motherhood? Why would she ditch college and take off on a bizarre adventure in the wilderness? Or, they ask, to what do I ascribe my extraordinary ability to cope with a new life of work, danger, pain, distress, and privation?
The answer is simple to me because I look at my life from the inside out, through the window of the heart. One word is all I need: love. Some have said: that’s childish, ridiculous, insane, foolish. But I have only that response: love.
From an early age I knew I was different somehow, that I had an incredible ability to love people and things in the world that others didn’t find very important. I loved my own shyness and sweet nature. I loved solitude and books. I loved the idea of far away places and adventures. I loved the natural world, even in its skimpiest appearances in suburban landscapes and on military bases. I loved the deep mystery of life and the scary territory of romance. I did not really know what I wanted, but I did know what I did not want: an ordinary life. I had an unusually open heart, one with a great capacity for love, which coupled with the sister emotions of trust, tolerance, forgiveness, acceptance, and patience, made me unbelievably vulnerable. That heart was never going to be content pursuing average goals or everyday dreams, nor was it going to allow a slow, suffocating demise in suburbia. And, like most young women, that exquisite heart yearned to be loved by a man who was exceptional, a man who wasn’t afraid to embrace life fully or meet challenges in a passionate way. Maybe the motivation was more than a heart that couldn’t deny its own desire, perhaps the goad was the unrevealed artist in me, or the undiscovered paramour, or the unenlightened soul, but some trigger deep within made me leap at the chance to have a different life.
Did I know that coming West would mean pain, hardship, and privation? Did I know that falling in love with exceptional men would mean hard work, hard choices, and hard knocks? No, I knew nothing. I had a girl’s romantic notion of the West, of the wilderness, of life on the land, of mountain men and cowboys, of wildlife and horses and cattle. But once I “fell headlong” into the experience, I saw no escape. Head-over-heels in love with the land and with the men who had fought to live and stay there on their own terms, I could not give up on the dream, the ideal, the vision, the quest. Even when daily life, year after year, brought distress and heartbreak, I always sought a way to stay.
Many have suggested that I was a bright girl who could have just walked away and started over again. I can only answer, how do you walk away from someone you love or from a way of life you’ve struggled so hard to save? I believed that if I had enough love, patience, fortitude, determination, and grit, that things would work out. That heart of mine was not only filled with love, it was filled with pride. I simply could never give up until there was no hope left with which to continue.
I was, and still am, a foolish woman who lives not by her head, but by her heart. I have believed with every cell of my being in the deep, abiding connection called love. Misguided, naïve, at times incredibly stupid, a girl with no self-preservation gene, I allowed myself the amours and adventures that my heart craved. Today, when the word choice seems to be the catch phrase for everything that harkens to individual destiny, I explain simply and humbly, I felt I had no choice. I fell in love and to that love I gave everything I had to give, many times over. After all, it was never about me, it was about the love.
Reader, you are about to go on a journey. My journey. Don’t be afraid, as I was afraid. Don’t worry about falling, as I fell, many times. I promise to hold your hand because there was no one to hold mine. All you need to bring with you is child-like curiosity, a strong desire to know. That is all I had. Don’t bother with self-direction or a sense of humor. I had neither when I set out. If you are feeling any kind of desperation, that’s good. That’s what drove me—desperation. A desperate desire to be loved and a desperate need to escape. “Escape from what?” people ask. “I don’t know,” I say. Even after thirty years of self-examination and internal probing, I don’t know. I can guess. I am good at guessing, it is the way I’ve gotten through life.Here is the interview question: “Laurie, you were a straight A student at a private liberal arts college. You were chosen for ‘Who’s Who in American Colleges and Universities.’ You had just been accepted as a transfer student into the prestigious honors program at the University of Chicago. You had a bright and promising future. Why did you leave?”
Here is my best guessing: “At twenty, I was tired of trying. It wasn’t that I couldn’t compete, I could. The fact is I didn’t want to compete, didn’t want to elbow my way up the stupid proverbial ladder to success. I was sick, soul sick. The non-stop noise and constant demands of life on the edge of the city was driving me crazy. I hated being part of a society whose main precept was ‘man’s inhumanity to man’ as evidenced during my high school and college years by the daily dose of news coverage about the war in Vietnam. I longed to be free of everything. I was desperate to escape, to save myself. Escape what? A confusing and unsettled childhood. The trauma of moving fifteen times in twenty years. The aftermath of an angry father. The inane expectations of academic life. A dismal future in the teaching arena that promised nothing but abusive paperwork and ridiculous rules. The crude disappointments of failed romances. The extremely sorry state of young men who were so wounded by what they experienced in Vietnam that they relied on drugs and alcohol to keep their ghosts at bay. Noise and tears. Noise and tears. I was weary of crying over things I could not fix, including myself. I wanted to find a man to hold and comfort me. And I wanted a place of peace and quiet in which I could settle into myself and find a way to belong.”
“Hmmmm,” the interviewer says. “Is that the real truth?”
“No,” I say with great patience, trying to keep the irritated edge from my voice. “The real truth is that I was young, dumb, and did not know. Now I am past fifty and still do not know. If you know where you are going, if you have all the answers, why bother to pack for the journey?”
“Well, then,” the interviewer proceeds to dig, “what motivated you?”
“Fear,” I say as I try to explain. “I was afraid of living and dying in a world that wasn’t real. Terrified of dying before I had a chance to truly live. And love. I wanted to love with my whole being, give my heart to someone who would appreciate me and I wanted to dedicate myself to a way of life that was worthy.”
The interviewer gnaws at my reasoning but cannot swallow my naive idealism. “Why would you choose to stay in unforgiving landscapes with cruel men?”
“Same reasons,” I say. “Fear and love.”
The interviewer raises an eyebrow, so I try again. “Fear of failure and longing for love?”
Another blank stare.
“Don’t you just want to go on this journey with me?” I ask.
“Is there no way in which you can explain why you stayed and how you coped?”
“No. I do not know how to explain. Answers elude me. They always have. That’s why I came West. To look for answers even when I did not know the questions.”
“I’m just trying to better understand who you are, what drives you? Why did you walk away from urban life and all its opportunities? Why did you put up with Bill? Why did you stay, despite him being cold and aloof? Why did you have such a sentimental attachment to the animals? How did you feel when they died or were killed?”
“You’re from the city, aren’t you?” I ask.
“So, you’re saying that I should just read the story?”
“Yes, you’ve got it. That’s it.”
“All right. But I’m wondering first if you could rework the narrative. You know, lean up the prose, cut the verbiage, eliminate compound sentences, get rid of the prepositional and adjectival phrases, avoid the passive voice and awkward syntaxes.”
“I could, but that means you want to hear the story told in the mature voice and polished style of a fifty-year-old. You are not willing to experience the bumps and glitches and struggles of a twenty, thirty, and forty-year-old writer who is trying to find her way. Are you saying you do not want the authentic voice of stories written over a lifetime because they are stylistically flawed?”
“Yes, I mean no, but I would like to have narrative consistency. You have written as if you were thinking or recalling your life, rather than writing crafted for a reader in mind. Could you go back with some basic writing mechanics in hand and revise so that you will bring greater elegance and clarity to your experience?”
“I think you are missing the point. There was no elegance or clarity to my experience.”
“Well, do you think you can ‘step back from the moment’ and reflect upon the meaning of your decisions, experiences, and life in the West?”
“You have a Ph.D., don’t you?”
Ah, I found the right remark to stop the barrage of questions that have no answers. That is why I left the “urban world with all its opportunities.” I was weary of the mindless questions.
Reader, now that the interviewer is out of the way, do you want to go on a journey with me? You will have to put up with “clutter,” “enabling language,” “wordiness,” “convoluted sentences,” and “awkward syntax.” You will have to deal with a woman who is mixed up, uncertain, often foolish, at times stupid, clumsy, misguided, inappropriately dressed, full of idealism, and worrisomely open-hearted. If you are willing to accept those travel conditions, read on.