Into and Out of the Cornfield World

On Saturday morning at 7:15, I brought my car to halt in the middle of the road, a few miles from home. A woman in a teal baseball cap had pulled to the side of the road, blinkers flashing, and was standing in the road.

In her right hand, she held a box turtle who'd been trying to cross.

Any day that starts out witnessing the saving of a turtle's life--and a kindred spirit doing it, no less--cannot be approached with anything else than optimism.

Three hours later (more or less), I arrived at my destination. Cate and I graduated from grad school the same year, and she now lives with her husband and two young daughters in the middle of what is apparently an endless cornfield in Pennsylvania.

I was excited about this visit for a variety of reasons. I get very few opportunities to talk about writing, and I've only rarely seen Cate since she left Pittsburgh. Also, I wanted to spend some time with little people, especially after the last year with middle school students, which had made me forget why people have wee ones to begin with.

I got to spend a lot of time holding kids, and making up various scenarios for barnyard animals. I went swimming, visited an Amish vegetable market, made fruit salad. In between, I did get to talk to Cate. No offense to the residents of Culpeper, but Cate's smartness was so refreshing. I'm consistently amazed by her practical brain, since mine is more like a globe full of drunk moths.

My sadness has dissipated a bit (thanks, Cate). Maybe I just need to spend more time with kids who aren't tweens. Or take more weekend trips. Or write more. Or call my friends more than once a year.

Also, I think I left my favorite blue bra there. I guess that's a reason to go back.

In my best moments, I get to realize that I'm never as alone as I want to believe that I am. And even when I am alone, I know that I'm not lesser for having no one around.

In my best moments, I am incandescent. Even if no one is there to see it.