For most of my life, I have feared being lost. I trace this anxiety to a frightening sojourn in the dark behind the door of a movie theatre after my family saw “Babes In Toyland” in 1961. Perhaps my need for control extends to the act of matriculating the byways of my mundane existence. Whatever the cause, I have been known to cower against the car door during the most harmless of drives.
But when I moved to the California Delta, I found myself compelled to explore. Whether from loneliness, boredom, or curiosity, I slid behind the wheel and journeyed in whatever direction I fancied. If the sign to town pointed right, I turned left. I began taking pictures, first crouched on the shoulder bracing myself against the fender; but of late, from the car window and even through the windshield.
Today I explored Tyler Island, unexpectedly leaving paved road to travel along a river where social distancing meant standing twenty feet apart with fishing poles extended. Here and there, egrets and herons picked their way along the rough edges of the bank. Red-winged black birds took flight in the wake of my engine’s rumble.
Two hours and a quarter tank of gas later, I descended the driveway of the park. I sat in my car for a little while, listening to the mourning doves through the open window. Then I went inside and poured a cup of cool water, which I took out onto my porch. I closed my eyes and let the breeze caress my cheeks. I did not flinch when a hummingbird flitted past, making its way between my feeders and the neighbor’s garden. After a few minutes, I rose, took up my walking stick, and started down the gravel road along the meadow. The sun slowly descended in the western sky as I made my way across the bridge and back home.
It’s the nineteenth day of the seventy-sixth month of My Year Without Complaining. Life continues.
“Lost Things”
OH, I could let the world go by,
Its loud new wonders and its wars,
But how will I give up the sky
When winter dusk is set with stars?
And I could let the cities go,
Their changing customs and their creeds,—
But oh, the summer rains that blow
In silver on the jewel-weeds!
— Sara Teasdale
Please note: All images are watermarked; and are copyright C.Corley2020. Thank you.