I’m sitting in my living room and my eye falls on the back of a small rocking chair…dark oak, carved (not pressed), a small nursing rocker I found long ago. I’ve given it away twice, and both times has found it’s way back to me. And I remark on the nature of it…not what you’d likely find in someone else’s home. And my first thought is that it’s not ordinary. And I look around the room, and see little that one would describe as ordinary. And somehow, that explains my life: I’ve never wanted an ordinary life.

I’ve often asked how I ended up where I am, what I am at this age: single, childless, solitary. But I’ve never until now seen it quite this way. I’ve no idea why…what whimsical star made me thus. But I see it clearly…I’ve never wanted the ordinary. There is no journey in the ordinary, no place to go. And, as long as I remember, I’ve always been going somewhere…