Maybe

Maybe

Noel Laflin

                                 Friday the 13^{th  _} October 2000

Maybe it’s as good a day as any to start a journal – especially when travel, sanctuary, and healing are involved.

Maybe I’ll tell of the acquisition of the new journal itself – an oversized, spiral-bound book of thick, cream-colored pages, blank within – the raised, embossed silver cover bearing the likeness of Michelangelo’s ‘Creation’ placed front and center, calling me to take it home – which I did - shelling out thirty bucks to the store proprietor’s eight-year-old daughter perched high atop a stool behind the register.  She sang sweetly from her perch as she rang up the sale.

Maybe I will even speak of the inner peace that finally came over me while spending time with two fine friends as we wandered enchanted neighborhoods along the Central Coast and spied on secret gardens.

 

Maybe I will then elaborate further upon the story of how the younger of my two companions, and I, imbibed in Mother Nature, becoming more than just a little stoned by the ancient ruins of Lime Kiln, tripping out on the beauty of the ferns, redwoods, and creek that cascaded down to the rocky shores of the Pacific.

Maybe I’ll dwell more in regard to the hunt for polished jade glinting in the sunlight at low tide.

Maybe I’ll describe the clarity of the Channel Islands beckoning across the sea – appearing so close that one felt the need to reach out and touch them.

Maybe I will finally get it right someday, and try to explain how Paul Simon sang to us about the girl with diamonds on the soles of her shoes as we drove up and down the coast of Big Sur, mesmerized by the rise of a blood moon illuminating a castle high above San Simeon.

Maybe I shall mention that this was a trip of escape from the confines of a long hospital vigil – the place where my father had battled for his very life but days before.  Now on the mend, I had passed over the reins of watch to my brother, promising to return in a matter of days.

Maybe I will finally admit that had I stayed in town but one more day, I’d be the one next admitted – diagnosis: ‘He was close to cracking.’

Maybe I will describe the trip more fully at another time. And perhaps a story will even come of it.

Maybe it already has.