Something Good

Sometimes I hate living in a little Midwestern suburban house, albeit in a quirky city. I think that I should be living in a major metropolitan place. This morning I said to Partner that I could see myself in places: London, Manhattan, or Toronto. "What about Vancouver?" was her rejoinder. "I don't know about Vancouver. I have never been there. I'm limiting myself to places I've been." Because you know, I could very well love living in Rome, as the Facebook quiz suggests I might, but I've never been there. I went on a limb and suggested I could probably hack Barcelona, but my time there was brief. There's something appealing about living next to bright blue sea with mountains ringing the city. Tapas. Red wine...

But there is wine to be had tonight at the weekly gathering of my friends. And now I have the child that has been sick for days curled up under a blanket that I used when in college, its baby blue cuddling him close, sleeping. It's just about warm enough for the door to be cracked open, and the cats are all sleeping in the streaming sun coming through the picture window. I could be anywhere in the world right now and this scene in front of me would be the same: gentle and soft and ephemeral. Soon the boy will wake up. The cats will scatter. The night air will set in, cold and damp and the door will close. And if I was in Barcelona, Roma, London, Manhattan, or Toronto, I wouldn't be going to wine night with the fabulous group of women I get to see tonight. There are other things about Michigan I would miss too... Quite a bit, actually.

When I was in college, my neighbor across the hall and I admitted to each other that some nights even though we were exhausted, we'd go out because we both feared missing something good. That feeling dissipated over time with me, but I think I still hold on to its vestiges. I stay here because I might miss something good. I want to leave because I might be missing something good. If I am always looking for what I might miss, am I missing what's right under my feet, literally? This boy, this moment, the sound of Coltrane and Hartman sifting from the kitchen, the wind blowing away winter, the small domestic symphony of light and dust motes to the percussion of the neighbor boy's basketball thump-thumping...

Tonight, for the rest of the night, is going to be the challenge of living here in this moment, with only myself. No other dreams of what-if, or where-should-I and let the present come over me, scare me with its reality, and make me realize that here I am. And that's powerful enough.