My computer gives out on the last day, telling me it is time to stop. Just everything. Lay it aside.
So I pack Deidra’s book into my suitcase and head off to tie up the threads of a long weaving, the pattern of which I still cannot make out clearly. I keep stepping back and stepping back, trying to see the whole picture.
A week later, I return home. I unpack. Passing through the living room, I move a few things – a lamp and a table – and a room that’s seemed out-of-kilter since we moved here suddenly seems right. Everything’s in its place now. It was all there, all along.
I fall into a holy collapse.
“We are sleeping until we are ready to get up,” I tell the dog at bedtime, as if we’ve been assigned it as homework.
* * *
I return to ESL class.
I take my computer to the Genius Bar.
I have the electrician over to take care of a long list of things I’ve been procrastinating on.
I make soup.
Thursday night, I go to group and feel I don’t belong, not because my chapter ended but because it was so short compared to most everyone else’s.
And THIS RIGHT HERE is the kind of thinking that needs to stop, the constant minimizing of my own stuff, like I’m disqualified, like I don’t belong, like I don’t have the right to speak, at least not in the face of what everyone else is going through.
* * *
I have a story to tell. It began the day I reached for that journal. But what exactly the story is, I need to discover.
And that is exactly what I am going to do.
Where the story lies, I’m going to find out. I am boarding the train and riding it, window seat, to see again the ground covered, both to tie up the loose threads in me and to learn whether I have anything worthwhile to share, anything that might help another traveler.