Karina Ivanova. ECHO OF ALL WAYS

As the dinner party was winding down, the smooth departure of cars contrasted the evening’s earlier awkwardness: some didn’t get enough food, and a few like myself, spent most of the evening by the lake, trying to coax sleepy ducks with stale brownies. That’s when my friend, D., a Kazakh actor and fellow artist at the Watermill residency, noticed me lingering by the water in solitude.

«Feel like swinging?» he asked, nodding towards the nearby swings. His voice sounded playful and empathetic, and I couldn’t help but smile and followed him. 

— This was my escape last year. Glad you’re here now to share the quiet. D. said as we were swinging gently. 

For a second, I caught myself thinking that my time at the residency mirrored the rhythm of a swing — one moment, I was fully immersed, engaging with fellow artists and eagerly diving into every performance that sparked my interest. Yet, in the next, the intensity of those very experiences would feel overwhelming: I’d pull away, feeling out of place and doubting if I was good enough to be there. 

— Me too. But it all still seems surreal. You’ll find this funny, but I once played the March Hare in an ‘Alice in Wonderland’ school play. The director’s name was Bob, just like here. Now, being in residency in New York, with, like, the most prominent avant-garde director Bob Wilson? 

— It’s been quite a journey, right? D chuckled. 

It was comforting, this shared understanding. He had the knack for making me feel at ease, always saying the right thing at the right moment. However, our peaceful interlude was cut short when the party abruptly ended when another artist, F., in an attempt to join a conversation, had accidentally damaged an antique couch. The incident made everyone suddenly rush to leave.

«That was like an unexpected finale to a drum solo, huh?» said D. as we got up from the swings. His light-hearted comment eased the tension as we joined the others heading to their cars.

«See you at the bar in half an hour,» someone announced loudly, ensuring the night wasn’t over just yet.

«Am I the only one heading back?» I murmured unsure if the words were just in my head or if they’d slipped out. Well, it didn’t matter; no one seemed to notice anyway. I drifted towards the last car in the lot, the same one I’d arrived in. At the residency, they’d handed out three rental cars for each house, and tonight, I was set for a solo trek across the unfamiliar stretches of Long Island. A smile crossed my face as I remembered last year’s birthday, sipping a Long Island cocktail at a bar where I played gigs in Atyrau, and how, by chance, I actually celebrated my birthday on Long Island this year. Turning the ignition, the car’s radio greeted me like an old friend.

For a year and a half prior, I’d only driven my grandfather’s sturdy Niva around our summer house, where the absence of dead-ends meant endless loops. Each ride built my confidence, as Grandpa’s guidance faded into occasional nods, and the curious glances from locals added a layer to my pride. Driving became second nature, a background task that allowed room for chatter and laughter. But tonight, the bustling highway demanded every bit of my attention, with its symphony of honking trucks and sleek Ferraris zooming past my minivan. The world outside blurred into my private cinematic spectacle but the radio host’s voice snapped me back to reality. 

«What were you up to in the summer of 2007?» he asked the listeners. As Fergie’s «Big Girls Don’t Cry» filled the car, a wave of nostalgia washed over me. I recalled how I discovered Fergie’s solo album that year and printed out the lyrics of every song with translation to sing along and pick up new English words. 

“…The path that I’m walking, I must go alone.

I must take the baby steps ’til I’m full grown, full grown…”

That summer marked the end of childhood games in the yard, a turning point where I, at eleven, decided it was time to grow up. Twelve years later and thousands of miles away from home, I tried to find a single reason for why I was in such a hurry to do that.

I opened the windows slightly and let in the fresh air, which smelled like the sea, mixed with gasoline and dust. It was a small act of rebellion that made me feel more free, even if just for a little while. As soon as I noticed my phone’s battery was at 25%, my brief sense of freedom slipped away. I had about half an hour drive left on unfamiliar Long Island roads.

«What if I get lost, or the car runs out of gas?» I was worried. I thought back to a recent car breakdown and J.’s (a German artist 9 months a year and a carpenter at the residence every summer) comments comparing my Dodge unfavorably to German ones.

«Should I stop for a charger?» I pondered, but instead, I pressed on, hoping that things would turn out just fine. 

Repeating «I always know where I’m going» like a mantra for the next ten minutes or so, I tried to quell the rising doubts. 

“Go straight for the next 5 kilometers.” 

When my GPS chimed in with directions, I shut it off, fearing my phone would die before I reached my destination. The thought of pulling over to check a map crossed my mind again, but just then, I saw a familiar grocery store sign near the house I’d already started to call home. 

“You’ve reached your destination.” 

My ride back to the house reminded me of driving lessons with Grandpa, where making the same rounds had a similar, almost monotonous feel. It struck me how our thoughts can loop in the same way, especially when facing new routes. 

«Doesn’t this remind you of how our minds work?» I asked Grandpa as we circled past our house yet again. 

«How so?»

«It’s like when you’re on a new road, you’re all eyes, taking it all in. Then, after a while, it doesn’t excite you as much. Still, the thought of hitting the highway is a bit daunting.»

«But venturing onto the highway eventually is part of the journey, isn’t it?» Grandpa said smiling.

«Exactly. And soon, even that vast road feels just like another stretch. You find yourself seeking a new path, chasing that sense of discovery,» I explained, feeling the car slow as we approached our home.

As usual, I forgot to press the clutch, a small slip that always prompted a sigh from Grandpa. My dreams often replayed this scenario, me behind the wheel of various cars, unable to stop them. But in one dream, Grandpa was there to bring the car to a gentle halt. I glanced at him, half-expecting some insight into those vivid dreams.

He stepped out of the car and paused at the doorstep.

«The journey might seem repetitive, but it’s not about the roads we take. It’s about how we navigate them that truly defines us.»

This phrase resonates deeper now, as Grandpa’s presence has transformed into memory. Yet, this recollection doesn’t just frame him as my grandfather; instead, it reveals a person who, like anyone, faced his own challenges in navigating the journey of life, and serves as a reminder that for each of us, navigating this world in our current form is a first-time journey.