Are you a tourist or a traveler? Is it a trip or a quest? A journey or a destination?
These days, I’m a tourist more than a journeyer. I did my journey early in life. I was on a quest for years before coming home to myself. Coming home to my heritage. Coming home to my genetics.
That sounds kind of sad, but I don’t mean for it to. A year or so ago, maybe two, I was playing around with some video software and did a digital story about my house. I often don’t know what I think, until I start writing. The montage needed a script and so I wrote one. In the course of writing, I discovered I had reached my destination. The journey was over.
Now when I leave home, I’m a tourist. I’m not looking for a place to live or find happiness or fulfillment. I’m simply out seeing the sights. Kirk Judd wrote:
I thinks one reason I be leavin' alla time is 'cause the comin' home feel so good
If only what was said could be taken back, I could sleep at night. Completely taken back as if the words were never uttered, never broke the barrier between thought and vocalization. If only.
Julien May 29, 2022
If only what was done could be undone, I could move forward. Completely undone as if the deed never provoked an outcome, a clean slate. If only.
If only the thought could be lost before it sullied my heart. Forgotten before it was acknowledged, never to leave its stain of discord on my psyche. If only.
If only, I could be a vehicle for harmony and peace. Never to sow sadness or anger or criticism. To be a nurturing soul to all I encounter. If only.
If only, I could get to the core me, I would be perfect. Radiating love and hope, a person of perfection in this imperfect world. If only.
If only, I could return to the beginning. Without scar or wound. Prejudice and temper, ego unfettered. If only.
If only I could return to that state of grace of the newborn – one of wonder, content, suckling only love. If only.
If my grief were a book, it would be Dickens. Large, expansive, serialized. My grief provokes tears, provokes laughter. Marvels at the absurdity of life. Goes on and on. Driven by words. And memories. Little action and lots of description.
If my grief were a touch, it would be the grip of an infant on his mother’s thumb. Hanging on, but oblivious to the need to do so. A reflex of sorts. Never wondering why.
If my grief were a bowl, it would be a large ceramic bowl used to make bread. Something that can hold the small bit of yeast and water and hold the enormous amounts of flour. Accommodate the dough and air while holding the temperature steady for the rising.
If my grief were a garden, it would be a cottage garden. English. Somewhat of a mess, but breathtaking at its peak.
If my grief were a dog, it would be a dachshund. Stubborn, hard to train, following me everywhere. Sweet in its devotion. Sincere in its love.
If my grief were a pair of glasses, it would be bifocals with lines, heavy black frames, held together with super glue, and a Band-Aid.
If my grief were a sunset, it would be the opposite of a Hawaiian one. The sun would not blaze the sky with color and magnificence to slip into a silver ocean turning the sky a vivid dark blue. Oh no. It would be the sunset of a blizzard in Maine. Unnoticed for the misery.
If my grief were a door, it would be a revolving one like at the bank. With muddy footprints and the fingerprints of mourners on the glass.
If my grief were an elevator, it would be out of order. The door opening and closing, opening and closing, opening and closing, going nowhere.
If my grief were a sports car, it would be a Camaro – mostly ordinary but with a certain touch of pizzazz –like a custom paint job.
If my grief were a person, it would be Cheri and Donnie, Doug and Daddy, Susan and Debbie and Jes.
If my grief were to leave, I think there would remain a hole where it used to be.
W. Va. Fur and Root 