On the Visceral and the Van: An Ode to Diana

I’ve never been much of a car person, they’ve always been little more than a way to get around – a means to an end. Maybe it was because, while my parents promised us all cars when we turned 16, they didn’t promise us new or fancy ones. Or maybe it is because I went through four cars my first year of driving (hey, don’t judge). Whatever the reason, I’ve never become particularly attached to the metal and machines of a vehicle. 

But this one was different. As I watched her new owners back up and drive away, I felt a deep sadness for the loss of Diana, my beloved 1995 EuroVan camper. It felt like the end of something. I felt like I was leaving something behind, like I had moved on, abandoned, or otherwise grown out of something. 

Probably because I had, or was starting to. As I look eagerly towards a life in a family of five and towards crossing the rest of the fifty states on foot, I know the ole girl could no longer support my dreams. There just wasn’t room for two car seats, travel bassinets, running gear, and a pre-teen. Not if I wanted my relationship to last the miles at least. It was time to move on. It was time to let go. 

As much as moving on means growth, often to bigger and better things (we’ve already placed an order for a sweet new ride), moving on is hard – really hard. I know that, and I know that its difficulty reflects its necessity. But a van? C’mon Maggie – it’s just metal and plastic, it’s just a thing. She doesn’t really have a soul, a personality. She doesn’t feel abandonment or loss. She isn’t a “she” at all. Why are you being so emotional about this (and don’t blame the pregnancy hormones).  

It’s got me thinking. Why do we attach ourselves to such things? Why do we get so upset when we shrink our favorite sweater?  Or resist tossing out that ugly old chair, you know the one that always somehow feels damp?

Because they’re symbols. It’s not about the shirt, or the chair, or the van. It’s about what they represent. These things are tangible symbols of things that we can’t see, things that sometimes we can’t even put into words, they’re symbols of the visceral. 

And maybe even more than that, these things give a sense of permanence to temporary events. The fleeting emotions, the flashes of happiness or pain, those are gone in an instant. Even the people we share them with, they change, forget, or move on. But things can remain timeless.

That crack in the windshield, it was there when I felt broken in the desert. The seat plate that never snapped on? That was there as my family spent our quarantine days in our backyard, among the swirls of a summer marsh breeze and each other. And the hula girl on the dash? She connected me to the friends who supported me without fail through it all. They were all portals, horcruxes, to moments and people in my life that I never want to lose. 

Don’t get me wrong, Diana wasn’t ageless. Much to the contrary. She was old. She needed nearly constant care and attention – neither of which we could give her. But she was still Diana. She had that smell, of sweat and summer, that no amount of northern snow could dilute. She was still the same van that provided refuge from the miles, a mobile oasis in a boundless desert. She was my constant companion for nearly 3000 miles during my transcon run, and again for five more state crossings. She was a symbol of generosity. She was a welcomed reward at the end of a hard-run day. Countless miles were spent searching for her, a flash of white (or blue) on the side of the road. Seeing her meant reprieve, companionship, if only for a minute. In her were my friends, my family, my potato chip sandwiches and hard root beer. 

But she also was a vehicle for transition. She came into my life as I was moving, quite literally, from one version of myself to another, and again as I sought to balance the parts of me I wanted to keep and the parts of me that were quickly emerging. 

And maybe that’s why today was so hard – because here I am again, in a period of transition – a new job, a new baby, a new country. Maybe it’s because while she and I shared thousands of miles, I can barely remember the last time I logged a double digit run. Maybe it is because, as I look eagerly toward what’s next in my life, and I do mean eagerly, I still feel a little nostalgic for that woman who hopped in a van and ran among stars, into the sun, and along the highways and dirt roads of a land she so fiercely loves. Maybe it is because I struggle to find the words that pay tribute to that life while also showing gratitude for the life that has emerged in the miles since. 

So, I’m a little sad to see her go, but I know, that in reality she’s just a symbol. And while the feelings and times she represented have gone, as all moments go, their legacies – the imprints they have on my life are as present as ever. They may be touched by time, but with each shift, each growth, their lessons are solidified, in our actions, our words and the very engines of our soul.

So, roll on my summer queen, and thank you. I’ll take it from here.