Having an old fashioned "sick day" today.
Gargling salt-water, sorting vintage clothes for etsy, pretending to clean my house, considering the seven woes and the lilies of the field.
There's a foggy field out my living room window. A cardinal is perched on the barbed-wire fence right now. Bright and bold, he's making an early spring splash against the still-brown grass. Sometimes I see deer. I live in a 1950's era, pre-fab style residential neighborhood one block from law offices and laundromats, but I'm lucky to subsist across the street from a blank patch of earth. It's for sale. Please don't buy it if you're prone to build.
Just past the field are the tracks. I've watched two trains pass since I started typing. I grew up hearing train whistles from a few blocks away and now I live even closer to the BNSF West railroad. Approximately 88 trains a day go through this part of town. It forces me to leave the house 5 minutes early (or arrive late to the party, which also happens sometimes). We live in a "quiet zone," so the whistles rarely blow and I barely notice the gentle rumble unless I'm drifting off to sleep. It's like a mild thunderstorm: comforting and cozy, almost omnipresent. I like trains.
Trains know where they're going. California ports to Chicago rail yards or coal country to power plants. Forward, wheels in tracks. Beautiful.
Personally, I've always wanted to be like a train. Focused, driven, purposeful, tough. I'd like to know exactly what I'm supposed to do and get it done. I have no affinity with race cars. What's the point of going in circles faster than everyone else?
But here in this fortunate state of affairs, I'm not driving a train. The life that's been handed to me is more like an off-road vehicle. There are laws and limitations, but within these parameters also lie tremendous possibilities. Various routes. A million ways to break my neck. Freedom.
I don't get the luxury of tracks. I suppose I get something better and infinitely more frightening: choices.