Kneel Down in the Moonlight

The title of this post [which is a line from a song by Martin Page] really has nothing to do with its content; I just like the phrase and this seemed as good a place as any to trot it out. Then again, maybe it will eventually have something in common with the content. If I let my mind wander, instead of pulling back on its choke chain like I usually do, it very well may come into play.

Okay, this was a bit disconcerting. As I'm writing, I have the TV on and I'm watching the replay of the soccer match which took place in Moscow. Behind the sound of the announcers' voices, I hear "Take Me Home, Country Road" by John Denver playing over the loudspeakers at the stadium. In Moscow. How bizarre.

While sitting at work today, I had a strange but interesting notion. Someone had a pencil in her hand, and I was suddenly struck by the thought that, to me, pencils are comforting.

Being a curious Virgo, I immediately grabbed hold of it before it could slide by mostly unnoticed and I asked, "Why?"

Is it because I learned to write using a pencil, tracing letters in the notebook that had the wonderfully textured newsprint paper, making sure the curve of each "a" hit the dashed line sandwiched between the two solid lines? Is it because pencils are reassuring in that they come equipped with an eraser? Maybe it's because pencils are simple and low-tech - no running out of ink, no blots on the paper, no fretting over choices of "fine," "extra fine," or "medium." Or is it the lovely way the wood shaves into curls when you sharpen it? I'm sure this isn't exactly a question for the ages, but it was interesting to plumb its depths for a few minutes.

Speaking of plumbing the depths... My best friend Melissa also writes a blog and recently, she posted her to-do list - things she wants to accomplish before she moves on, a bucket list as it were. I thought, "Hey I should do that too!" ...and could hardly think of one thing for the list, much less 10 or 20 or 100.

It appears there's a hole in the bucket (list), dear Liza, dear Liza. And how incredibly sad is that? To come up blank when faced with the idea of jotting down my dreams? Why is it easier to list the things I have to do, not the things I want to do? When did the wide-eyed kid, the piece of me with all the fanciful notions, go missing? Is she dead or merely comatose?

In an attempt to prompt her recovery (or resurrection), I'll list the things I did think of:

Visit Ireland
Learn to play drums
Become a wildlife educator
Grow sunflowers
Visit Maine/Vermont/New Hampshire, preferably by train
Write a novel
Take the train across Canada

That's all I've got...for now.