Every day, perhaps more than once a day, I get wistful thoughts that sort of breeze into that thinking space between my ears. I must have left the door ajar after I finished sweeping and that lonely wind just blows western wishes into my mind...wishing I could do things again, like going for long trips to places we would love to visit. Going to NH to visit my Mom and help her out. Going back to work...riding...giving riding lessons...going hiking. Playing music and jamming again. Performing onstage again. Every day, those wishes kind of follow me around, hiding behind bushes and chairs until I'm not paying attention and then popping into my thoughts uninvited and unintended.
I know how to shut them down immediately, and I do. I answer those wishes firmly with thoughts of someone wheelchair-bound, blind or bedridden who can't do the things that I can do and then, this lightning-quick debate, having become habit and instinct, lasts only seconds.
Yet, every now and then, while I read a trade-sized paperback book, I give in and allow my now-clean-and-soft fingers to rub across the slick covers, evoking a sort of squeaking noise that vibrates and sounds like oak-tanned leather as though I'm leaning forward, arms rested across the saddle horn, and scanning the mountainsides for signs of bear or cougar, or catching a glimpse around the edge of a rocky cliff at places I can't go. Where only my eyes can travel.
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