My Mother’s Search for Nirvana
By sharon enck
Mother had itchy, hippie feet, and a wanderer’s soul that seemed to never be satisfied. My formative years were spent in constant motion going from place-to-place in search of her nirvana. The wanderlust started way before me, and she threw caution and consequences to the wind when it came to motherhood and the pursuit of freedom.
The first move I remember, at seven years old, was into an old renovated Victorian in our hometown in rural Pennsylvania with my mother, my sister and the boyfriend du jour. Once a beautiful “painted lady,” the house had gone years without a decent paint job, and had suffered the indignity of being hacksawed into two separate living accommodations with us taking residence on top. From the living room, you could see an abandoned red brick church with an adjacent cemetery across the street. I was equally fascinated and repelled by it, daring myself to peek at it through the window.
My mother claimed to hear footsteps in the house when no one was there, as well as the padlocked attic door opening and closing on its own. I couldn’t wipe that from my imagination. Suddenly, every noise, creak or groan was somehow connected to the supernatural. I was convinced that a ghost from the cemetery was haunting us, but I didn’t have to suffer for long. Soon after my eighth birthday, she got the urge to “go West, young woman!”
Without the formalities of a goodbye, we left our relatives behind and headed West, toward the coast. We hit the road in an early 1970s station wagon, the color of a rotting avocado or the shag carpet that would eat your Barbie’s shoes.
Without the formalities of a goodbye, we left our relatives behind and headed West toward the coast.
It was the vehicle that would be our home for what seemed like months, but in reality the “road trip” was probably only about three weeks. Our journey consisted of forgettable "unforgettable sights." My clearest memory of the trip was shampooing my hair with ice-cold-well-water at a rest stop. Luxuries such as the Motel 6 were not included in the itinerary, and I would watch those lit vacancy signs pass by with longing.
Miles turned into days, which turned into weeks. Not even the age-old sisterly bonding game of “I’m not touching you!” which consisted of placing your index finger as close as humanly possible to another person without actually grazing them, wore thin after a while. My sister, a hot head to this day, would often belt me one–a clear violation of the rules—and mother would threaten to turn the car around. Her boyfriend would echo her sentiments in his best stepdad voice as though he were auditioning to play the part, but I knew that my sister and I were just extra baggage.
When we hit Visalia, California, it became apparent that mother and her boyfriend really didn’t have any money. The elusive beach would have to wait while our free spirits got jobs. We stayed in a shelter, which eventually gave way to a cramped Bates Motel-esque apartment with threadbare carpets and a teeny kitchenette. Only a small strip of dirt separated the building from the freeway, and the constant hum of engines became my white noise at night.
We settled there long enough for mother to enroll my sister and me in school. Although I didn’t make many friends, I excelled in academics. In my first semester, I was among a group of students invited to breakfast with the teacher as a reward for good grades. Going out to eat was something my family never did, and I trembled with the excitement of having pancakes at Denny’s and not chez hippie.
I would have been proud of my accomplishment had I not found a newspaper clipping mother had saved that praised the school and its administration for their generosity. Reading the article, I learned that we had been treated to breakfast based more on our poverty, not necessarily because we were good students. I was humiliated and the fear of being found out as “poor,” not “impoverished” or “financially challenged”—those elegant phrases weren’t part of my vernacular then—followed me through high school.
1980 was the year of green bell bottom pants that made me look like Gumby, and it was also the year that John Lennon of The Beatles was shot and killed. To mother, Lennon represented ultimate hippiedom, and I came home from school to find her hunched over the radio, muffling the DJ’s somber voice with her own sobbing. At the age of 9, I may not have understood the revolution, but I did want someone to hold my hand.
Standing on a high cliff and gazing out over the horizon, the natural beauty helped me understand the freedom Mother had been chasing.
I can’t say for sure if it was John Lennon’s passing or just mother’s a-rolling-stone-grows-no-moss theory that led to yet another move, but we packed up all of our things and hit the road again. We made it to the coast a few weeks later.
When we parked at Black’s Beach, we all piled out of the car and headed towards the ocean. Standing on a high cliff and gazing out over the horizon, the natural beauty helped me understand the freedom Mother had been chasing. A heady mixture of salt and flowers crept up my nose. Palm trees were the new pines and any other climate seemed overrated in comparison to this salty paradise.
Black’s Beach was, and is, known for being a nude beach, thanks to its seclusion. While the sand, waves and salty air commanded my attention, it didn’t escape my notice that these people were naked. Mother giggled as she noticed me, noticing them. “It’s all right, Sharon. You don’t have to be nude,” she said. I looked away in embarrassment, but the energy coming off the entire place was hard to resist, and I eventually gave in. The sun warmed my pale skin, and I’ve never felt so comfortable or free.
It wasn’t long before we settled in Ocean Beach. A bohemian’s absinthe-induced dream, its main street housed open-air clothing stalls, and head shops that reeked of incense. Burger joints sat in peaceful co-existence next to co-op organic groceries.This place–finally–seemed to satisfy my mother's longing for the "free" lifestyle.
Looking back, I often wonder how I managed to get through my road trip of a childhood.
Recently, I found a photo of me from that period of my life. In it, I’m sitting on the top of that wagon, studiously hunched over my diary while filling it with poems, musings and song lyrics. That girl on top of the westward wagon never doubted that everything would be okay. She dreamt of the day when her writing would take her places and make her whole.
As I grew older, I had no choice but to accept my mother’s decisions. And eventually I, too, fell in love with her mantra of "anything’s possible." It's freeing to live in the moment, being true to yourself and taking risks; you never know where they will take you in life. As chaotic as those years of my life were, my mother taught me what it means to pursue happiness and joy—whether that was her intention or not.
Looking back, I often wonder how i Managed to get through my road trip of a childhood.
Now that I’m a mother myself, I’ve found a way to balance free-thinking and forward motion without throwing caution to the wind like dandelion seeds. My happiness didn’t come at the expense of my daughter, and I practiced what I call “freedom with intention,” filling our lives with joy and adventure without forcing her to call the way-back of a station wagon home.
My daughter was never subjected to the anxiety of joining a classroom halfway through the year, desperate to make friends. When she glanced into the stands during her hockey games, or the audience of her theater performances, she didn’t feel the sting of disappointment that I wasn’t there.
She came before any person, place or thing. And not once has she had to wonder why, in the dead of night, her mother was driving her away from the people she loved.
“The girl on top of the westward wagon…”
Sharon Enck is currently working on a master’s degree in Narrative Studies at Arizona State University. Her creative nonfiction has been published in Canyon Voices Literary Magazine and her short fiction, nonfiction and poetry have been published in Mariposa Literary Review.