I carry a map in my bag as a talisman against misery. A map on which to plan a physical journey. And it will be very physical: it will be on my bicycle. And that journey is itself a physical manifestation of this other journey that I am replanning.
Life is a journey.
That metaphor. So trite. But I am living it right now.
That whiny annoying GPS voice that insists ‘recalculating’? I’m recalculating. Recalibrating. Reassessing. Finding new direction. It is my only way forward, as every step in front of another is a small victory right now and no mean feat.
When you have dreamed a future with somebody. When not for a second have you wanted that future without that somebody. When, aside from a parting in death, it had seemed a done deal, and then that dream suddenly goes up in smoke, you’re left with a void of no future. Every plan had included that somebody. So now there are no plans. No direction.
And in the low space of loss, there is no desire to dream. The spark of creativity can not be lit when you feel you are drowning.
So now I carry a map in my bag. A map of a region a younger Dominique – before there were any somebodies in her life, before her path meandered away to join any other bodies – dreamed of exploring.
That’s all I can do now. I can go back to the younger Dominique. Dust off her dreams. Breathe life into them.
I have a map. I have a plan. I have hope. I have a future.