Something about the jets
flying over, screaming wind onto the runway, people going places. I love listening
to the rastafarians on the bus—there are lots of different religions here, I
tell Tallulah, and she asks, “Do they believe in the crossroads?”
I guess we believe in the crossroads. Our life is a perpetual
crossroads, it seems. Anchored below the university, I feel at peace. I wonder
if I should apply for a job here. But maybe there’s something else I am invited
to learn. Be here now. It’s a cliché. On the other hand, it’s the most profound
wisdom. Isn’t that the way it always is?
Copyediting a book about women’s cancers, it’s hard not to ponder
the meaning of life.
This is what I’m learning from sailing: don’t make plans. Prepare
as if there is a future, but know deep down there is only this density of now.
On the bus, the length
of the island, taking our cat Daisy to the vet with the life seeping out of
her. The sweep of the bay, the cruise ship, a crowd of tourists waiting in line
to get on the shuttle that will take them back to the boat. Cruise director
wearing black shorts and a blue polo shirt. Like Julie on Love Boat. Was that a show for adults? How many of my ideas about women
and men, and life at sea, have come to me, slipping in, from Love Boat?
I am a freelance copyeditor, traveling to foreign ports. One who
does not belong. There is something powerful about always being a stranger. I
have come to cherish it. About doing my work, which, quite honestly, I do not
enjoy.
The air blows cool off the sea. I have a revelation—something
dawns on me—something about how the only thing that’s ever gotten in my way is
me, myself—it slips away, turning the corner to pass the old people’s home,
where once on the way to the grocery store I saw a twisted body being brought
out, mouth agape.
[Update: It looks like Daisy will be OK!]
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