terrypetersen

Maybe who we are isn’t so much about what we do, but rather what we’re capable of when we least expect it. (Jodi Picoult)

I read the notice, but my brain interprets it in its own way: This road will be closed from April 23 until it is ready for the landing of the Apocalypse ship. Sure, I know another way to get to the Y. But, I’m not certain where the construction begins and ends. And part of that road leads to our friend’s auto repair shop.

My car is running okay, but it is a 1997 model—old by mechanical standards. And I have no idea how soon the ship will land. Okay, I’m exaggerating. However, the detour sign has become the new travel standard.

Expect long delays. Great! I need to pick up my granddaughter. At least back streets are available. And my direction-deprived brain knows them.

Life detours are another matter. An old friend learned her cancer has returned. Another friend battles a second bout of sepsis, cause unknown. I talk to someone I haven’t seen at the Y for a long time. She moved to Arizona, and then returned to Ohio because her daughter developed MS. The daughter needs constant care.

Even on a less serious level I woke up last week with pain in my shoulder. Too sharp to go back to sleep. Fortunately, I was able to figure out that movement made the discomfort worse. I had no shortness of breath. No heart problem. No reason to wake my husband.

Nevertheless, I had no idea what had caused the muscle pull. Even holding a book caused pain. I tried anyway. A day and a half of heat and rest revitalized me. The perfect time to notice the beauty of the moment. I fought the urge to get up, clean a dirty corner, work on my next book, jump through the next hoop, cross the next bridge, or detour, before I came to it.

Rest. Sometimes I get lost in my own overdone good intentions. Maybe the good intentions don’t matter as much as what I can do when the detours appear. This is the season.