Moving On


Dear Eugene,

So, a long weekend church retreat, the first since...I don't remember when.

Or where, or what, about the last one.

Or how old I was then, how I saw myself and others, how I felt about God and religion.

How I fitted in or didn't.  Likely didn't.

And if I didn't, what did I do with myself, with my fingers.  Did I tap them on the dining table in order and repeatedly like the steps of a marching band meal after meal and for what purpose?  Did I hide one hand in the pocket and show only the one that I needed to use, to hold a fork maybe?

How did I detach from the intimacy around me and make a legitimate case to keep looking in from the cold and still find reasonable satisfaction even when straining my neck?  Somehow I was never tall enough to reach the bottom of a window, to get decent enough a view that at least makes some sense.  And the bottom was often fogged up anyway if I could reach that high.

This weekend I played floor hockey for the first time in my life, two nights in a row, in rarefied cold air of autumn.  I was glad to have joined, even though I could tell I was not needed and probably for the betterment of the game.  If the hockey stick is a pen then I was wordless.  Hockey is not where I came from or where I am going.  I was just a happy visitor and I moved on.  I am happy that I was actually happy.

On our bus ride back I wrote a story in my head about a long distance truck driver.  It has no plot.  The guy just moves from one place to another.  I have a feeling they won't make a movie out of it.

I hope you had a great Thanksgiving, Alex

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