There's no place like under your own bed.

 “There’s no place like under your own bed.” 

                  This is what it feels like:

Dr. Freud and me

     Every night I am looking under the bed for red shoes to click their heels together. “There’s no place like home. There’s no place like home. There’s no place like home!”

One of the purposes of travel - it must have purpose; it’s not something we do by accident - one of its purposes is to “broaden horizons,” to help the traveler overcome his clinging to home and to safety and to see the wider world, to see that there is more to wonder at and delight in than to fear. But I’m not seeing that. Not at the moment. 

     The days are not so much to be delighted in as to be gotten to the end of. We make a schedule: less in order to see, to hear, to smell, and to wonder about. More to get through, to make it to the end of, to say we did it. Then, we can go home and rest up, get back into something of a routine, God willing!

Sad, I know. But there are extraverts, and there are introverts. There are the calm and the anxious. And the blind don’t always come to see, whatever the hymn implies.

     There are those that have to commiserate with the servant that hid his talent under the bed.

08.27.18