Tour guide

I am sitting in my garden like I have been every morning this summer. Drinking coffee that I don't really like. I am too unambitious to search out a new blend.

The locust are humming louder than the birds can chirp. When I squint my eyes I see there is still a calla lily looming in a wild corner of my garden.

I take this time to write in my journal. My journal is large covered in black shredded cloth and the binding is unglued. I have had this particular journal for five years and I am only 3/4 of the way through. Relative to other decades of my life I am writing infrequently. However this journal unlike the others is stuffed awkwardly with copies of poems, personality tests, mood charts, mantras, mudras, writing of general wisdom, even some pages of St Frances De Sales from the church bulletin. I buried these scraps in this bulky book because at some time in the past five years they centered me, calmed me, inspred me or quieted me. I crammed them in my journal as Treasure maps. I thought later these would serve as defined routes to a place within me of peace.

These humid summer mornings while sipping my bitterly roasted coffee in the garden these Treasure maps may get picked up by the wind, smacked into the corner of my yard and lost in the tall unedged grass along the fence line. I would think twice about retrieving them. I feel fussed with them enough. They remind me of where I was years ago and the reasons in relied on them.

 The treasure map shows you the way but is not the treasure. I can have the treasure without having the to revisit old journeys because I am the tour guide.

There was a song on a mix tape I listened to over and over when I was twelve. It had a sound bite at the very beginning of a voice saying " I don't know where I'm going but I like it here wherever it is". 

I still agree.