"All journeys have secret destinations of which the traveler is unaware" -- Martin Buber


We're each of us on a journey. Even standing still, I am moving through time. Each decision I make is a fork in the road, a crossroads. Sometimes the road bends, sometimes I move uphill, sometimes down. But the road, as Baggins put it, goes ever on and on. This journal entry is about where I am in my current journey.

I moved here to the US almost seven years ago. First of March, 2005, three days after my future wife was diagnosed with breast cancer. Since then the road has had (to say the least) a few ups and downs; we've been through one mastectomy, several weeks of radiation treatment, seven rounds of chemotherapy, a wedding, gamma knife surgery, three house moves and a few more things beside.

It was inevitable, given the nature of cancer, that there'd be humps in the road, twisty turns and even hairpin bends. In places there were sheer drops. In our case, the farther we travelled the rougher it got. We're now in the end-game, we're off the tarmac and on the rocky road into the hills. We've never been here before, and it's a little scary. Oh yes, we'd talked about it beforetime. We had discussed hospice care, clinical trials and disability insurance, pensions and the like, but getting off the smooth blacktop has been hard; we expect a few sprained ankles and skinned knees.

This is not to say that the journey is awful; the landscape in the hills is still pretty! There's still a blue sky, trees, grass, flowers. They are still there, but we need to watch our footing a little more, so occasionally we miss them. But still we stop to picnic a while, look around at the beauty, share our food. But we know that one day, there will be the final sunset on our great journey together.

I miss her already.


Update: The sun finally set on 29th March, 2012. Farewell, my love.

8 nodes were added to the 'gel on Fri 17-Feb-2012
Highest-rated w/u: Growler (thing) by doyle at +53 Rep

Among them:

This beautiful and heartening daylog by wertperch which I and, currently, 20 other noders are all encouraging you to read. (above)

Related to it, the mysterious rosetinted posted another excellent poem, this one in tribute to Kevin & Christine: Until the earth and sky met and locked the distance between them forever

doyle submitted another fine w/u, explaining everything you might need to know about that useful artifact of American beer culture, the Growler:

In the good old days, before the 18th Amendment, you could either drink your beer at the saloon, or send your kids with a bucket (growler), which could be filled for a nickel. The pail held, more or less, a half gallon. Between the difficulties of bottling, and the tax regulations at the time, grabbing a pailful of ale was significantly cheaper that grabbing a bottle. ...

Rounding out the rest: Glowing Fish came to the defense of Comic Sans, teleny took an interesting slant on a (person)-node at Laura Nyro, some short fiction from new noder Laiam, some... er, I don't know what from moeyz (feel like I'm missing some vital context here. Guess I should watch more PBS.) and a poem by worn-out_shoe.

I had once thought I was done with this, but I think I'll be finding pieces of broken glass every now and then.

----

Will they let you return
Boxes of chocolate,
If they know she's dying anyway?

You're right outside my bedroom window. You're sitting in a tree, your improvised hammock, it doesn't actually exist, I checked. Halfway upside down, and you can't see me. Not at first, anyway. You're in a relatively good mood, though I don't know why you're here. It's never advisable to try to evaluate how you know these things and why. Your clothes don't suit your style, I'd never see you brave enough to try this where I'm from, but you wear them well. The best of what I can remember is black fishnets over black, tight stockings. Inching, upwards, and upwards, your skirt folding slowly backwards towards the bend in the branches. Surely this is me trying to tell me what matters. I hate myself.

A quick glance turns you around. As though you only just now noticed you were being watched. I don't buy it. There is a warm, yellow, embracing and genuine smile. It used to be I would only see that through tired eyes. Not now. You're all melatonin. Melatonin and glasses and fishnets twisting in your stride. You are altering my focus at will. You are walking through your environments, a Midas touch that makes all things invisible and permanently disregarded, they cannot disappear. You are walking towards me.

I can't tell you why I know you're dying,
This wasn't up to me
I can't tell you why I can't see you
Or how I know you're there, you're still,
Walking
Your brightness does not hurt me,
Does not blind me, it
Over-encumbers

There's so much I can say and
You go first
There's only one thing you want
One thing my mind can place your soul to say

Take your goddamn chocolates and go home.

----

(A note: this has NOTHING to do with Christine, or Wertperch's famous and wonderful daylog from this day. The date was not arbitrary - it was another part of the given, uninfluenced information from the dream.)

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