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I wouldn’t have been at all surprised this morning to hear an armor-clad knight clanking his way out of the mist towards this trusty steed. The fog totally obscures everything that is familiar–you lose your sense of direction, distance, and time. It can certainly be eerie, especially if you happen to be on a one-lane country road after dark, but it’s also kind of exhilarating to let yourself be swallowed. You become the center of your own narrowly defined universe and control whether the fog shrouds the past or conceals the future. Some days it’s therapeutic to take advantage of the solitude for some quiet reflection, but other times it’s more rewarding to yield to the inner adventurer, and push the vaporous boundaries in search of new discoveries.

Dip, push, pull, pivot. Dip, push, pull, pivot.

The mantra was unnecessary after so many years on the water; her body knew how to propel the sleek kayak smoothly along the quiet creek. So automatic and efficient were her motions that she’d easily out-paddled the rest of the over 40s in the canoe club’s annual race last month. No, today the chant’s sole purpose was to calm her racing thoughts, to mute the what-ifs, to stem the flood of emotions that threatened to swamp rational thought as surely as rapids could capsize her little boat. Her life was irrevocably changed, and she needed clarity of mind before she could begin to think about how she would move forward from here.

Dip, push, pull, pivot. Dip, push, pull, pivot.

She hadn’t believed the words when they’d tumbled from the mouth of the 11:00 news anchor. Seeing them in print in this morning’s paper hadn’t been enough to convince her either. A frantic internet search led to the same information, and surely three sources could not be wrong. Yet, stubbornly, she refused to acknowledge the truth that was before her, and raced downtown to verify the news at its source. The bell on the door had tinkled its usual farewell as she stepped dazedly back onto the sidewalk, clutching the computerized printout in her trembling fist. It was confirmed. Unexpected, unbelievable, but absolutely undeniable. All six numbers were a match. The largest jackpot in the nation’s history. A stroke of luck.

Dip, push, pull, pivot. Dip, push, pull, pivot.

Today’s picture is the perfect metaphor for my life.  The canal path represents the last few months we have left here in England, and the puddles are the finite number of adventures we can cram into that time. Ahead, the gravelled footway makes a sharp turn, marking the day when our plane departs Heathrow and flies across the pond for the last time. Beyond that lies a fog of uncertainty. What kind of job will I pursue in the States? Will I be happier with the Korean SUV or the American one? Where will we lay our heads each night, and will it mean adding another mortgage to our collection? Should I splash out for a new smartphone or resurrect the old RAZR? How many times per week can I eat Chick-fil-A before someone stages an intervention?

I’m not very good at letting the future take care of itself–I like to have at least a general idea of where I’m going, so I fret and worry and plan and scheme. Past experience tells me that despite all this effort and the best laid plans, I often end up having to just go with the flow anyway. If I waste too much time and energy trying to guess what’s hidden in the mist around the bend, I’m going to miss what’s right in front of me. As we get closer to the turn, the fog will clear and bit by bit we’ll have a better perspective on the trail, its forks, and its obstacles. Until then, I’ll just pull on the old wellies and splash in every puddle the current path reveals!

Dear Birds,

I understand that singing up the sun is in your job description. I appreciate that you are eager to greet the new day. I get it–the early bird gets the worm.  However, it is 4:04 a.m.  The sun will not come up for FOUR MORE HOURS. You won’t find a worm right now unless you’ve got some high-powered night-vision goggles. Why aren’t you sleeping??

Honestly, I don’t usually mind your cheeps and twitters as you gather in the old walnut tree outside my window.  After all, I can rarely hear your joyful chatter over the whirring fan on the dresser until I’m fully awake and concentrating on the world beyond the blankets.

But one of you is pushing your luck.  That loud squeal you just made sounded alarmingly like the front door opening.  My head knows that this is virtually impossible, given the English predilection for doors with no outside handles, but my adrenalin-fueled imagination is in high gear.  So now you’ve forced me to make a heart-pounding tour of the ground floor, armed with my baseball bat, knowing full well the creaking floorboards at the top of the stairs will undermine any attempt I make to sneak up on an intruder.

As I suspected, the front door is closed firmly, and there are no uninvited guests skulking about. The baseball bat has been stashed, I’m back under the covers, and the deafening roar of my racing heart is gradually being replaced by your cheerful songs. Just this once, I’d gladly give up my remaining two hours and twenty-six, oops, twenty minutes of sleep if your premature serenade could hasten some sunlight to banish these last stubborn traces of fear and paranoia. But tomorrow, I expect the courtesy of being able to sleep straight through till the digital demon on the nightstand declares it is morning.

Sincerely,

The groggy, jumpy lady in #13

That pile of eraser bits is testament to just how hard I’ve worked to conquer a monumental project that’s been haunting my to-do list since 2008 (hey, who are you calling a procrastinator??).  I have FINALLY updated my address book(s). New friends have been added.  Addresses of the nomads are current. Names I didn’t recognize have been deleted. My Gmail contacts now match my Mac contacts (thanks to a really nifty $1.99 app in the Mac App Store called Contacts Sync for Google Gmail), which match my old school address book, and even my Christmas card list. It’s probably overkill to have the same addresses in so many places, but it’s virtually impossible to lose them now. If my address book goes AWOL in a move, or my computer’s hard drive crashes, everyone I know is still safely archived on Google’s server. Now the trick is to make changes across the board when new info comes in, instead of editing in one place and neglecting the others…that’s how my cousin’s Christmas card got mailed a couple weeks ago to an address she vacated nearly three years ago. Sorry, Aaryn!

She wished her heart was broken as cleanly as the frost-ravaged stone in her winter garden.  Surely a wound with such crisp edges could heal, given time, leaving few noticeable scars.  Her heart, she was certain, more closely resembled a flag that had been left at full staff in a vicious hurricane. Another long jagged tear appeared as he raised a threatening fist in thunderous rage. Already tattered edges were flayed yet again by a pelting torrent of hateful words. One more irretrievable piece was torn away when he stormed out the door in a hail of curses. Seeking shelter for her wounded heart, she wrapped herself in a faded quilt and huddled in the corner of the sofa as the tempest roared off into the night. She wondered for the thousandth time just how much longer the last fragile threads of a mother’s love could withstand such a battering from her only son. And she wept.

I passed this tree on my walk today, and the first thing I noticed was its symmetry–it’s the ace of spades from all directions, presumably because it stands alone and does not compete with any other trees for England’s precious sunlight. Almost simultaneously I noticed that it’s dressed for winter in a sweater of deep green ivy. The entire trunk and all the major branches are snugly enveloped in a solid sheath of leafy vines. When I looked again, the tree looked less like the highest card in the deck and more like a young boy with his arms raised, his mother having just drug a chunky wool turtleneck sweater over his head, leaving behind a wild halo of fine, static-charged hair reaching out in every direction.