I woke up in the darkness and caught a shuttle to the airport. The problem with shuttles and their time windows is that I was fetched with an inordinate amount of time to spare. I caught the first leg of my journey from Baltimore to the Motor City, and slept the entire way.
A rolling stone gathers no moss.
And yet I was growing torpid and mossy as I languished in the ennui of limbo. But an opportunity presented itself, and I took it. So now I am Communications Director of American Voices, a nonprofit that conducts cultural diplomacy. They do such work with special focus on strife-torn areas like Iraq, Afghanistan and the like. With any luck, I will get to tour such luxurious locales. I will share more details in the coming days, but for now some of the news is embargoed.
Meanwhile, I had been trying to shake the nerves that come with new endeavors. But little signs kept me moving forward with cautious alacrity. Like a double canon on the day everything went down. Or the statue of our Quixotean hero in the Motor City airport to remind this knight-errant that the spell that had kept him trapped in La Mancha had been broken. Or the big arcoiris that greeted smiled down after I had been pelted with hail (Ah, midwestern weather...)
Travel is like yoga to me. It allows me the moments when I can just breathe and focus on what is next.
I boarded the flight to Paris of the Midwest, took a deep breath and began to focus on what is next with a clarity I have lacked in a while.