In this taffy-pull time warp, there were two months left. And then, seemingly suddenly, two weeks. And as if by magic – abracadabra – two days. The items on my To-Do-Before-I-Go list have dropped away as surely as the autumn leaves will soon begin to do.
The days melt together and away in this suspended animation of waiting to go and wanting to stay. “What,” I think to myself not infrequently, “are you about to do?” If I let myself chase my tail in this way, I get caught in an eddy of rumination that has no end. I’ve tried to keep as busy as possible to stay away from the event horizon of the thought black hole. That's become increasingly difficult without a car (adieu, my beloved NMSTE plates), but fortunately I could walk to town and have borrowed cars or accepted gracious offers for rides when I needed them.
The reading has helped too. I’ve begun "Shakespeare and Text" by John Jowett, who will teach me the course of the same name. When I open these pages, I feel as if I’ve slipped through Platform 9 ¾ at King’s Cross Station to a parallel universe where people are even more obsessed with Shakespeare than I. It’s in this waking dream that I remember what I’m about to do: join my tribe in Stratford Upon Avon. “We few, we happy few, we band of brothers” (Henry V, IV, iii, 60). And sisters. We Shakespeare nerds.
So, here I finally sit, staring at the tarmac, sipping white ginger peach tea, watching with the wonder of a child as the aircraft maneuver. Aer Lingus, Virgin Atlantic, Emirates Air. Where are they all going? And why? Has someone else on one of those planes uprooted in preparation for flinging themselves across the ocean to transplant, too?
Still heavy with the weight of the wait, I’m content to lean back, languid, and rest. For once, and for a moment, I’m not thinking about what it took over the last 11 months to get me to this soft grey futuristic faux leather swivel lounge chair, nor what lies ahead after landing at Heathrow.
Photo by Diane Lowman