Instead of fussing with packages to be sealed with tape that’s splitting on its roll, and packing heavy (boring) books to carry in a bag I’ve yet to pack, I want to be writing—to pull rabbits from hats, haring swiftly through expanses of sage and mountain schist; pull silk scarves from my sleeves, colored garnet, lemon, and burnt orange or maybe persimmon; weave unicorn tapestries; cook posole with smoky red peppers or even lovely shrimp for an insouciant flavor; watch ancient olive trees achieve their four-hundredth summer or fall, as philosophical as the best teachers I have had teach me.
But time is up, and I must march off on my trip; a prisoner of other people’s time. I’ll take my meditation tapes and two new British mysteries, but probably not the fat twig with lichens I found this morning that connects me strongly to the earth, my comfortable heart-felt home.
I’ll see a play on Broadway; visit my favorite Greek restaurant outside of Crete. I’ll work mostly, and stay inside, imagining what’s out. I’ll love the time away, I hope, but my homebody twin is bidding me stay. Is anxious, unsettled, yearning for the return.
image: She Who Is