After days of crumbling nostalgia and seeming uncertainty, I have settled back into my own skin.
Bundled and hopeful, I shuffle downtown armed with my umbrella and the Feist. This weather/music combination always reminds me of London. A warmth pulses through me and I sigh in blissful comfort. The past feels like that sometimes. Like hugging an old friend.
I leisurely wander in and out of overpriced boutiques, repeating “I can make this” in my head as I inspect hand crafted cards, candles and prints.
A call from my brother almost has me turn back and head for an afternoon of work on my computer. But a little spark in my soul advises me otherwise. I order a chai latte and sink into a plush, worn, green couch at a local coffee shop. My jeans are damp from my rendezvous in the rain. The warm chai floods down my throat and tingles all the way to my feet. I pour over Kerouac like a college kid discovering freedom for the first time; in awe and inspired. Frantically highlighting and underlining phrases, inspired by his honesty and embarrassed by my own lack. Lack of creativity and adventure. Age does that to you. Like a coy thief, slowly replacing idealistic dreams with dull practicalities.
Determined to not give in to complacency, I take off for the open paved suburban road …