I hesitated when I saw the corridors. How they appeared grey and unforgiving and functional and full of lockers neatly tied with golden locks that might never be opened. I thought about small dog and how she might be missing me and if I remembered to thaw some dinner for the evening. I wondered if the clothes were in off the clothes line and if I remembered to line up the french grinds for older son and if I, if I what? I don't know now. All I know is that I had left my comfort zone. I had jumped from a tall cliff where a woman lived in relative ease, picking berries and making meals accompanied by Bach, while she wore old socks and drank wine. All of a sudden she was in what appeared to be the real world.
The real world is full of grey. The real world is a list of things. The real world screams out ''listen''. The woman thought about this and wanted to run away and back to the light that came into her window. There are no windows in this new place. Light is fluorescent - there are no windows. Men talk. They tell her that if she works she will succeed. She takes small notes. She draws silly things on a sheet of paper; leaves in fall, tiny bonfires, dogs sleeping. Nothing at all that makes any sense.
She buys a sandwich that tastes like airline food and eats it in her car. Grey houses border the parking lot. Houses with tiny windows. Barbed wire fences surround her and she plans what she will make for dinner. Nothing makes much sense but somewhere in her she knows that she is doing the right thing. When she gets home her boys will hug her and ask her how she did. She will not tell them about the grey. She will tell them how the words she heard mattered and the prospects are good & while the wind stirs up around the house she will make dinner. She thinks fresh Basil in September is very special. Soon it will not be here and she also thinks how new she feels and how odd that is, that grey corridors can evoke a sense of newness and how amazing the bog looks on a wet day, drenched wet, three cows, heads bent in earnest to grass are stunning, like art weeping through the hours, lost in time. And all that is to come.