jackie's chickens

Charleston International Airport – that's where I sit. I have always thought it was a beautiful place, and, to be frank, a quiet place – even if the unofficial acronym has always rubbed me the wrong way: CIA. Even so, the palm trees and the consistent lack of honking despite 8 lanes of terminal traffic are a consistently mute reminder of the place I have, for my entire life, called home. But this afternoon, everything in my life – even the nature of home – is slowly, yet surely, to change.

In 43 minutes, a United flight to Newark begins to board. And then, Grace and I begin our first adventure as a married couple: 4 months abroad, lived out of 2 backpacks, starting first in London.

And that's where things begin to fall . . .

out of my control.

Perhaps that very worry – of losing control – is why I muttered what I did mid-sleep last night. Who I was talking to, I'm not sure. But their reply to my confusion, "I just don't know what to do" must have been engaging enough – I am now assuming – to stir great admiration and understanding. Because after having already woken up Grace in a slight fright, I held back not, and following a brief pause, she listened to me engage further and reply, "You're really smart."

What they are smart about, I fear that I know. What – or who – they are, or if they are anything beyond a great concoction of a sleep deprived imagination, I will probe no further. The lead up to this day has done nothing but spin me in circles. And while leaving home has always left me with a heavy heart – and I mean literally: a tangible feeling in my chest – those adventures had at the very least an end, often dictated by a meager amount of savings or a credit card limit, or an outline of a plan (even if the plan was pitching a tent in the trees on the side of a foreign highway).

But what's coming down the line is nothing of the sort. Not because of money – having a purpose-driven mission is not only not known to make a young man rich, but also known not to. Instead because when we land in London, our accommodation has been sorted for a few days through, as most of life now is, an app. We have come to agreements with quite a few fine British folks – and just now, Jackie, of rural northern Scotland, in early September – to watch their pets (and Jackie's chickens) in exchange for both a bed and most of what exists in their fridges and cupboards.

So should all else vanish, Grace and I will have, of course, each other, but also a bed . . . even if the location of the bed changes weekly.

That is something to count on, at least.

It was in Antoine de Saint-Exupéry's memoir, Wind, Sand and Stars, where I first saw the terror of a comfortable, controlled life best summarized: preparing to depart on his first mail run to Africa as a pilot for Aéropostale (now, Air France), he stares at the burning cigarettes being smoked by the office clerks, and, suddenly, is met with a 'vision of the face of destiny' (underline, mine):

"You rolled yourself up into a ball in your genteel security, in routine, in the stifling conventions of provincial life, raising a modest rampart against the winds and the tides and the stars. You have chosen not to be perturbed by great problems, having trouble enough to forget your own fate as man."

Now a thunderstorm has rolled in from the midlands, and is in the process of consuming Charleston. Despite the absolute disaster here at CIA – we are in the process of being delayed 10 hours and having to stay overnight in Newark – there is something homely about the two inches of rain congregating on the concrete, and the thundering roars which never cease, and the lightning which has chosen to strike Terminal B – our home, for now – and thus, killed the power. The generator is late to kick on – maybe because it has a slight resentment to act on its calling, or – more likely, to be honest – because it has not been ran since such storms ransacked Charleston last Hurricane season.

Regardless, in the darkness of a day impeded on by Creation – and, more poignantly, lacking an internet connection – I am forced to observe the way the birds cease to hem and haw as the clouds roll over themselves in the very sky I was supposed to be occupying now; the way the runway steams after surviving an hour underwater; or, should I be lucky enough on any particular day, such as this one, to be dumped on under a wall, the way the rain can be observed walking across the Lowcountry, washing over her pines and marshes. And after such a downpour, I find myself wondering: does she remember every single momentous drop that rained down on her?

Because in my case, against my wishes, I do.

See you out there,

Bryce