The seemingly banal brown box waited patiently on the doorstep for one of us to arrive home. I peered at the return label, and smiled knowingly. I bypassed the card and went straight for the cookies… cookies you can devour, but the words would take time to savor. The first morsel delicately melted in my mouth, and transported me from 2201 to Exit 12.

“Are you lost ma’m,” the forest ranger asked with a slight chuckle and warm eyes.

“No sir…. I’m finally found,” I softly replied while adjusting Jill Scott.

Moments later she pulled into the parking lot, the deafening music silencing reeling thoughts and grounding her in the present. She greeted me with warm practicality.

I surveyed the scene, her and I, each in our version of pigtails, orange shirts, and oversized sunglasses. My eyes drunk in the waves crashing against endless nude-colored grains of sand and the paths leading to the unknown.

Of course we ate first because that’s simply what we do. She selected a secluded patch of sand and we began the picnic process, laying a flimsy foundation of Ikea sheets and beach towels. We unpacked the coolers, convivially recognizing that each of her selections were a perfect complement to my own.

Channeling our juvenile spirits, we spent hours ambling along the shoreline and displacing thousands of grains of sand. We dug holes to the center of the Earth… just deep and methodic enough to bury our sorrows and set free our joys.

Eventually, the sun cast our shadows, artfully reminding us that we were indeed full grown women. We stood and dusted off our bodies, sand falling as freely as the secrets and sentiments did from our lips. I read the same look of despondence on her face, neither of us desiring to leave the wonderland we’d created.

I finished the last of my white chocolate, cranberry cookie and opened my eyes to examine the austere living space.  The moment of security and unbridled happiness were as ephemeral as the taste of cranberry on my tongue.  Back to reality. Back to slow drivers and drawls, to lesson plans, to labyrinthine roads, to impetuous administration, to air so thick it  becomes a burden, entrapping conservative ideals and stifling ingenuity. Is this where I belong?

I asphyxiated the moment of rumination in favor of making a to-do list…. much easier and in some ways, more practical.

  • Clean my bathroom.
  • Watch puppet master and perfect the dance.
  • Pay electric bill.
  • Read a book that contains no pictures.
  • Come up with a rockin’ name for the Grand Canyon album
  • Break the monotony of the day.
  • make props for lesson on Tuesday.
  • Catch up on Psych, RP, and PR.
  • Finish washing and iron work clothes.
  • Listen to the 21 new voicemails on my phone.

It seems as if every list I make is predominately composed of ambitious goals and infused with the superfluous… a disproportionate  fusion of my free-spirited past and regimented present.  I’m certain that many of the projects will be neglected, but reading is not one I’m willing to sacrifice.

I read recently that life’s challenges are not supposed to paralyze you, they’re supposed to help you discover who you are. Honestly, right now I, like most in my predicament, feel paralyzed. I hope to be set free soon. Set free from feelings of inadequacy, ignorance, alienation, and cynical thoughts. Scratch that. I need to be set free stat. I need some affirmation that this is where I’m intended to be… amongst the “Yes ma’am, No ma’ams”, the low hanging trees, the Piggly Wigglys.

I have a house, but I’m waiting for the day when this place and profession feel like home. I lie in bed most nights with expectancy in my heart: tomorrow will be the day. But I’ve surmised that until tomorrow comes, cookies and cards will have to do.

Always and forever— Kesh