I shake my head.
“If the word compass means ‘all that surrounds us,’ then maybe we need to wander. We need to get lost to widen our perspective. Maybe it’s not about adjusting our instruments, but adjusting the way we look at things.”
I am falling for this boy’s mind. We paddle and talk easily. Four hours later, we land on a rocky beach on Anacapa Island, not much more than a seagull-infested rock in the ocean. After lunch, Kurt and his friend Scott hitch a ride on a ferry back to the mainland and leave us alone on Anacapa Island.
“Sorry, we have to get back to guide another group,” says Scott.
After they leave, I realize that I have no idea what Kurt’s last name is. I am sure I’ll never see him again.
Two days later, after I’ve finished the interviews, we paddle home. When I get back to my old, red, Subaru station wagon, there is bird shit all over the hood. There is also a parking ticket on the windshield. I rip the ticket off the window. On the back side of the ticket, a phone number is scribbled in black Sharpie with the words, “Let’s go for a walk in Cold Spring canyon!” It is signed, “Kurt.” The invitation makes me feel curious, but vulnerable. Who goes for a walk with a stranger in a canyon? Then I remember how gentle Kurt was on the water, and how kind.
On my first date with Kurt, I sit near the creek and read poetry while he scrambles up rock faces easily, lightly, looking for birds. He tells great stories of which he is never the center of attention. We go on a few more hikes together. We lose track of time, identifying animal tracks, plants, and bird songs. Then one day, he cuts his hair and shaves the beard off and it is as if I am seeing him for the first time. He has gorgeous eyes. We find shade in secret caves and discover how well our bodies fit together.
“Here, I made you something,” Kurt says. He hands me a brown, woven bracelet.
“What is it made out of?” I ask.
“Dogbane fibers. They are super strong. Want me to tie it on your wrist?”
“Sure,” I say. I find it exotic to be with someone who can make jewelry out of weeds.
It is dangerous falling in love with Kurt. On the one hand, he is brilliant, honest, and hilarious. On the other hand, he doesn’t seem to own shoes. For as long as I can remember, I have had a list of what makes the perfect partner. Fear says, “How can you fall for someone who doesn’t satisfy the requirements on that list?”
My list:
• 6’5
• Canadian
• Pacifist
• Ivy-League graduate
• Clean-shaven
• Outgoing, a people person
• Loves poetry
• Runs faster than me
• Goal-driven
• Ambitious
Kurt, when I meet him:
• 5’11
• American
• Ex-marine
• State-school graduate
• Shaggy, old-growth beard
• Likes animals more than people
• Doesn’t read poetry
• Hates to run, except on all fours like an animal
• Lives in a tent
• Never wears shoes
Surrendering to the magnetic pull of this relationship is not comfortable for me. To trust the relationship, I have to let go of control and expectations. The more I trust, the more I gain. We go on adventures together, sometimes with maps and compasses, sometimes without. I like myself when I am with him; I am relaxed, confident, and creative. I am not worried about being perfect. With him, I feel like I belong.
I throw my perfect partner list into the wind and watch it blow away. Fear babbles incessantly in my head, giving me reasons why I shouldn’t, but I do it anyway. It feels reckless. But it also feels like I am being held. I remember this feeling from when I was very young, leaping into a cold lake. Terrifying and delicious. But I didn’t drown. The water held me.
I am used to spending my mental energy worrying. Is this right? What if this is terribly wrong and I should be with someone else? But now, instead of worrying, I daydream about our next adventure together. With Kurt, my voice has powerful ease. I say what I feel like saying. I don’t feel the usual societal pressure to be cute or witty. I also don’t feel like I have to prove that I am not needy. I’ve even stopped checking myself in the mirror to see how I look. It feels like I’m peeling off layers of caution and prudence and finding my skin underneath, young and shining.
3
We are married under two oak trees, not far from the ocean where we met. But we soon move to Arizona, then to Vermont, and the changes rattle me. With each goodbye to friends and family, I feel like part of me is left behind. At least we have each other, I think. But I am not convinced that it is enough. My strong, independent voice feels shaky and weak. I keep looking for a script. I wonder how to act when we are broke and he is unemployed. What would a good wife say now?
There is no time for adventures. There is no time for poetry or long walks. He commutes an hour and a half each way to graduate school. I have a job with a lot of responsibility, and I work sixty-hour weeks. At thirty years old, I am part of a small team, running a residential school with motivated teenagers from across the country. I keep wondering when the grown-ups will show up to take over. Can I really be in charge? If something happens to one of the students, it’s on me. I feel that pressure with every class I teach, every meeting I run, and every time we let the students explore the woods alone.
My colleagues are like the A-team of teachers. I am the new kid. They are brilliant, experienced, and unconventional. They quote Thoreau and T.S. Eliot over breakfast. They know how to play the accordion and solve page-long mathematical equations. I feel simultaneously giddy and anxious among them. They say things about other schools and other leaders that are not generous. It scares me. Is that how they talk about me behind my back? I don’t feel smart. I don’t feel like I deserve to be here. I feel like someone is going to knock on the door any minute and say, “We’ve found you out. Come with us. You don’t belong here.”
I stay up late grading papers, preparing for classes and board meetings, then answering emails from anxious parents to prove my worth. The voice in my head is critical. It sounds like a picky principal: “Susie is awkward and keeps missing the point. Her students like her, but they would respect her more if she knew the material better. As an administrator, she fails to consider all of the details. Susie needs to prepare more, manage her time better, and be more professional. She lacks the raw material to be a true leader.”
I miss my brothers, who always know what to do. I miss my girlfriends, the ones I call my sisters, who pick me up, brush the dirt off, and help me get back in the arena. We live in rural Vermont now, and they are all back in Canada, at least ten hours away.
I cannot remember the last time I did something for myself. I feel the walls pressing in on me in our apartment. It’s too much. I am not enough. I shut down the computer and walk outside. Kurt and all of the students are asleep.
Kurt finds me standing under the stars in just a t-shirt on a cold, October night.
“Come to bed,” he urges.
“I’ve got to get out of here,” I say in response.
“Maybe you should put some pants on first,” Kurt teases gently.
The next day, I check myself into a motel. I’m going away. I can’t keep up. “Don’t tell anyone,” I beg Kurt. My colleagues