Never big on spring, Vermont is having a season not of its normal mud, but of water; someone should be building an ark. The mud will come later, when residents along rivers and the lake try to clean the muck out of their kitchens and back yards. Here on slightly higher ground, I pulled my deck furniture out last weekend, but it will be a while before it gets used.
My state and I are slowly pulling out of our end-of-winter malaise. The leaves are finally coming out and trees and flowers are blooming. For my part, sleep has been coming more easily and in bigger chunks. Still sluggish, I’ve set my sights on a week with more exercise, less food and less wine. So far, so good.
I pursue my exploration of things untested: A spirituality workshop in upstate New York Saturday in a town never visited; a financial seminar last night with a free dinner, in a roomful of strangers. The Saturday experience was a little beyond me, but as I took a long walk on my return home, some other answers fell into place. My psyche, too, is waking up. Yesterday I did something I have not done in months: Get out of bed before dawn to go out for a run. It was only 35 minutes, really more of a walk with some running, but it felt like a milestone.
As I walked back home in the growing pre-dawn light, several city buses rolled by on their way to their daily routes, still “Out of Service.” But one bus was having none of it. “Fresh Bus,” declared its digital designation sign. Was it cleaner than its colleagues? Was it brand new? Maybe the driver was just having a little fun. I smiled back.
On so many levels, I have spent a long night out of service – physically, mentally, spiritually, personally, professionally. But I’m changing my label: I’m choosing to be a fresh bus, rolling along on a new day into the next phase of my life, in search of the next destination.