I’m on a journey.
Actually, I’m not on a journey as much as I’m searching for a journey to go on. Seems like everybody is on one these days. You hit middle age and you go on a journey.
You don’t lose weight – you go on a journey to lose weight. You don’t take up yoga – you go on a journey to discover how to bend like Gumby. You don’t travel more – you go on a journey to begin your journey to distant places.
It rattles me, this whole journey thing, it seems complicated, one more bridge to cross. But because I don’t want to feel left out, I’ve been spinning my wheels lately to identify a meaningful journey.
So far, I’ve come up with a big bag of nothing.
I take that back. I did go on a journey and it was rather unsuccessful. My tour de force? Last week I decided to cut back on living expenses. So rather than just decide to spend less, I went on a journey to spend less.
First, I bought a journal to track my progress. I know. I was not thrilled to spend money to ultimately save money, but I am well aware that journaling is an important part of journeying. At least that’s what all my journal-journeying friends tell me.
At the top of page one I wrote: I am on a journey to spend less money. And then, as if my hand were possessed with Ouiji-board-ish tendencies, I drew a very sad face with a big tear coming out of its left eye. It was clear I had accomplished all I was going to accomplish for that day.
The next day, feeling refreshed, I revisited my journal and jotted down a jaunty way that I, Anne Palumbo, could save money. Confidently, I wrote: Don’t buy any more meat until you use what’s in the freezer.
I don’t know what other people do with their frozen meat, but this is what I do: nothing. I can never remember it’s there! Anyway, that night, I thawed hamburger from 2004 that was as gray as elephant hide and hid it in some spaghetti sauce. I believe it was the universal cry of “gross!” from my family that made me toss the rest of my frozen meat.
Feeling deflated, I quickly exited Journey One.
Not one to throw in the towel so soon, I picked up my journal the following day and wrote: Get closer to your houseplants. A curious thing happens with me and houseplants, and that thing is called “death.” It goes like this: I buy a robust begonia, I tend to it for a week, I forget about it, it withers, I compensate by over-watering it, it bites the dust, I feel like a failure, I compensate by overfeeding myself chocolates. Yes, it’s a vicious cycle, one that I thought I could break by going on a journey with my houseplants.
Well, guess what? My journey got cut short when my begonia croaked on Friday. No matter how hard I loved it and sang to it and stroked its velvety leaves, it refused to honor me with its vitality. Whatever. At least the chocolates were good.
With two journeys down and none to go, I turned to my husband one morning and implored him to help me find a decent journey to go on.
“You big goof,” he said with a smile, “your journey is looking you straight in the eye.”
“It…it is?”
“Yes, walk two steps to the right, three to the left, and ten straight ahead. You’ll find yourself in front of the newspaper. I’d like the sports section, please.”
ARGHHH!
Originally published in Messenger Post Newspapers
