The infernal machine is cranking up again.
(There's more than one, you know.)
I'm off to Washington, D.C., in a couple of weeks. Of course, the cherry blossoms will be peaking early this year, before I get there. So it goes. And this time, I'm sort of sneaking in. No notification of my dear extended family. There's been so much chaos in the last year; I need to be away. Just me, in a city.
The gears begin to gnash. The wheel squeaks a bit. But I'm well enough for extended travel. So, I'm going back to Europe. I try never to pass up an opportunity when the cosmos offers it. I've learned--God, I've learned and learned--that you never know when that opportunity is your last.
I'll never ride a horse again. One of many reasons that I'm so glad that I grabbed the reins and rode that damned bitey horse in Iceland. But on the upside, I can probably still ride a bicycle.
It's a war of attrition, this body of mine. My doctors tell me I'm too young, tell me to stay active, but when I suggest an activity, I get quelling looks, conditionals. A lot of "don't." It sounds more like they would have me spend a lot of time not.
To hell with that. I'm too young. I haven't even reached 50 yet.
So Europe. There will probably be a bicycle.
But there is a lot of work that needs to be done between now and then. We know how that goes. The risk (and pain), the reward (and, probably, pain). Coming back takes time. You've got to want it.
I don't really know how to live any other way, even in this body of mine.
Go listen to some music: "Deep Blue" from the album The Suburbs by Arcade Fire.