A wet rag in hand, I grip the black front porch rail, wiping away the greenish-yellow, Ghostbusters-slime-colored pollen. Maybe it’s the color—the vibrance of it—that brings a text conversation with my friend Paul to mind. He’s in Portugal, sending photos of a bright blue sky over a lively cityscape. He said he could see our friend Reid and me there with him—adventuring, exploring.
I think about him coming in June. And Reid. There’s a whimsical feeling imagining us together—our odd little thruple of a friendship, a 69-, 55-, and 44-year-old trio—unlike any I’ve known.
They are coming for a week, and it means so much to me.
Something about going from mess to clean feels good.
Earlier, I removed the metal coils from atop the gas stove. The neglected crumbs and blackened bits clinging to the stainless steel had finally pushed me into action. Standing back and seeing it glisten felt good.
Wiping surfaces clean is more than just a task. It’s an affirmation—I did that. And maybe it’s also something deeper—like in Silo, when they clean the external camera lens. It’s not just physical; it’s psychological.
What if, like gunk on my stove, the buildup of fear—of panicked thought patterns—is softened, even cleared, by a good night’s sleep, a satisfying meal, or a conversation with a friend?
My body and mind are lighter today. After a couple of harder days of being pulled under by my insecurities and feeling helpless to help myself, maybe enough time has passed—enough for me to see what I can and cannot control.
Thinking about all of this brings up an image of a rocket ship cockpit—our own control panel to steer, drive, and zoom. It’s both daunting and mesmerizing. It’s especially awe-inspiring to push the right buttons. To know when to ease up, when to accelerate, when to bank and glide.
To be in control.
And that idea of control leads me to something else I’ve been turning over: abandonment—and how not to let fear’s presence get so strong that we lose ourselves in it. Realistically, it will happen. We are bound to our physiology, after all. But in that same vein, we’ve made progress. Where once our bodies felt like jail cells, we can now spot false threats, swerve around them, and remove the bars.
We can free ourselves. And each time we do, we really are free.
Love, Jaclynn
Going On 40 