If I wake up tomorrow and am nowhere, does that mean I haven’t been heading somewhere? The map unfolds itself in the signs of the day to day. While making a dinner for two, I am led to a cooking class. While cutting the mango I long for a return to Hawaii. At karaoke night, the sounds of Paul Simon’s “Diamonds on the soles of her shoes,” adds adds a ticket on my living list, resigning myself to get there to hear him before he is gone.
Before we are gone.
Resisting the label of journey, it keeps finding me. I shove it out of mind along with the self-help aisle and the therapy couch; I’d rather rely on horoscopes and palm readers.
I spin my wheels in the daily carpool, in the grocery trip, again! I spin resolutions from New Years to the time when the leaves fall but aren’t measured by fractions of inches. How many inches of dead leaves does it take to predict long winters of delusions about meeting someone’s eyes across the table, the stories of my heart and head locked away behind them for safer keeping than the present season affords?
There’s a time for content leisure, a time for acceptance and grace. And there’s a time for growing older with the smug smile and declarations of no regrets.
Meanwhile, there’s reflection and challenges to grow, in some way, any way that defies the restrictions of discontent bred by unknown details that escape understanding. Too close to the cause, habits fed by old comforts and limitations, I stretch arms overhead,my back arches, my legs reach long, my toes point, then curl toward the end of the bed, sheets askew.
“You look good in bedsheets, love,” he says. She wonders why anyone dresses at all.