For nearly six decades,  I catapulted through life.  Fear drove me — fear of punishment, fear of anger, fear of ridicule.  From the terror of an abusive father to the dire pronouncement of callous and unknowing doctors, I learned that my days could be numbered and most certainly would be short.  I stumbled forward on the broken road.

In later years, a kind of emotional short-sightedness plagued me.  I spoke and thought and reacted in superlatives.  My ragged nerves had touched the stove once too often. I shrank within myself.  Despite unearthing a few shiny stones as I dragged myself through the muck and grime, I never paused.  I let the scenery slip past in the gloom of night.  I leaned my head against the dark cold glass as the towns rolled by.  I made no move to disembark.

For a brief moment, fifty-five and fragile, I let myself dare to believe that I could slow, at long last; maybe even rest.  The feeling did not endure.  When I finally shook free of the immobilizing sting of disappointment, I fled.

Here at the edge of the earth, as I creep into my last act, I have no more reason to run.  The demons seem to have shuddered to a halt.  They do not venture into the river valley.  The Delta winds drive them back.   The ocean sits an hour from my doorstep.  Though I do not seek its comfort as often as I would like, the song of the Pacific has soothed me in some immeasurable way.  I know she waits for me.  I take my time.  Meanwhile, here on the banks of the San Joaquin, my life unfolds moment to moment, one frame at a time.  My heart slows.  Breathe in, breathe out.  And repeat.

It’s the twenty-fifth day of the eighty-second month of My Year Without Complaining.  Life continues.

P.S.  Somewhere along the way, I have lost track of the months.  This is my seventh year of this journey.  Math is not my strong suit.  Six times twelve being seventy-two, October 2020 is the EIGHTY-SECOND month, not the ninety-second.  Any blog entry with the leap into the future stands corrected.  My apologies.