something like intimacy

On the return half of a Friday morning hike on the Bob Jones Trail, snuck in between the rains, this thought settled entirely within my January 19, 1949 essence – I am utterly clueless about every bit of my life now. Right here, then and there, on the trail. The gathering of ancient Coast Live Oaks shimmering their total understanding in the southwesterly breeze. I don’t have a clue – not the tiniest morsel of a clue – regards (ing) any single possibility of a ‘What now? What’s next?’

I think I’ve been leaning into this, hinting to myself, in my writings, here in the blog with some of my posts the last month or so. Trailing my own personal crumbs Gretel has been tossing about along the way – I may be moving, my housemate’s wildly unpredictable, I don’t want a job, I’m so alone and yet feel disconnected from everyone, I feel like I’ve always lived here, that I’ve come home, and Encinitas and Oakland are on my mind.

I miss sitting on the sea wall at Ocean Beach in San Diego. I miss walking the Cape Cod Rail Trail in Orleans, Massachusetts. I miss sacred time on the bench in the Rhody Garden in Portland, Oregon.

And I have no plan at all – which was the subtle zap walking the Bob Jones the end of last week. None of this is ‘poor me,’ and if it reads that way, I apologize. I tend to tell it like it (me) is – previously on surfed couches, now from a mountain bench. And this is like it is. I’m just so utterly clueless about my life.

It’s not scary. I don’t think it’s bad. It’s just how I am.