Exercise

In 1999 the writers group I was a part of at the time joined together for a writing exercise. We were given a fortune cookie phrase, and asked to elaborate. Here's what I was given, and what I gave back:

“Depart not from the path which fate has you assigned.”

The path has always been a long one, and I knew from the beginning that however far I walked, I would die without seeing the end of it. My feet, nevertheless, were wings, and words my playmates in those early years. I traveled the path, and waved to those I saw along the way. They smiled and waved back, their lips moving with unheard words. Unheard because I was singing too loudly. “This is my way! I know it!” I sang to the birds.

No path to anywhere real is all straight, or all easy, and I learned to know the clouds by name as I gazed up at their dark, full bellies. There is Distraction, there is Hunger, There is Despair. Many a morning I awoke wet and cold and stiff, but the way lay wide open before me. I picked up my dull mind and plodded on.

Now for some years, I have danced in the meadows, cried in the branches of the trees, picnicked in the grass, and looked at the dirt on my feet and wondered how long it would take until my memory of the journey simply faded into the yellow pages on my notebook.

I’ve imagined myself satisfied, paralyzed, mystified, but nothing I imagine can take away the longing to put my feet in motion again. It’s time to walk, again, old woman. Walk until you fly.