If Life really is a game, then I need to get a clue on the best way to play. Sometimes I think it’s not, but then other times I wonder. I tell myself that everything is going to be fine, then when I least expect it, we run into a spate of trouble that sends us reeling backwards. Sadly I’m the type of person that becomes consumed with worrying how we’re ever going to get ahead. (Will we ever buy a house, adopt a baby, raise some chickens?!?) Occasionally luck shines down upon us with good fortune, and then the money leaves our hands just as quickly. A pay raise at work will surely mean a car repair will spring up out of nowhere and suddenly become necessary. It’s hard not to feel as if it’s all a game of chance; for no matter how hard you try, you never really know what the day will bring. It all depends on the roll of the dice.
Too often I try to look out far on the horizon to see what’s coming. I’d like to gain some perspective and get a sense of what lies ahead. When I’m in despair I crane my neck to get a better view, wishing I could know how far we are from a goal or some sort of end spot. When we reach that space, it’s always a reason for a celebration. (We take them wherever we can get them, including half birthdays and first date anniversaries.) If only there was some secret knowledge that could be passed along so that I could keep my footing even while climbing that ladder and somehow avoid falling down a chute. Such a fall can be devastating, causing us to have to pick everything up and start all over again. It’s happened enough times now, that I’ve become proud of my resiliency and stubbornness. That which does not kill us… In spite of it all, I’d much rather be here than not. Each day I’m just moving my piece along, and maybe looking for a little peace as well. Most mornings I just try to wake up and be happy with the square I landed on.
Cards to a Charley Harper memory game.
Living room table where we eat together and never quite fit. But we make do.
Hole (round peg).
Picassoey side of T's Rubik's Cube.
Desktop. Not really a desk. A small table on which my laptop rests. Where I work, except when I work in the car.
Scrabble board. A possession for which I'd return to a burning house.
Cabinet doors. Mostly decorated with stickers.
Frame. Which encompasses a photo of a typewriter and the words: Real writers really write. A reminder that there is work to do.
Block of painted wood. White.
CD cases. Most of which haven't been opened in a decade.
Homemade book from Michigan beach trip when T was one year old and L was nowhere in sight. And B was even further away.
Wedding invitation hanging by the door. A reminder, when we go out into the world, that someone is on our side.
Next week's word: Butter