Been my experience, in the life, that there are moments when the next step taken determines the route for some time to come. I guess it's like walking along the forest path and reaching the inevitable fork in the road. Not able to anticipate or foresee what lies ahead, and finding only basically the same view down either side of the fork, at least from this point of view, we step right or we step left with little more to go on than a wish for it all to turn out the way we want it, and a promise to ourselves that we will make the best of whatever we find down the road we choose.
Sometimes the road takes us to a clearing where we spy a magnificent mountain vista or a calming, but powerful, sea.
And, sometimes, the road takes us to the edge of a cliff where there is no going forward without extreme risk, nor turning back, for there is nothing in the past for us, anyway. (if there was, I imagine we would have stayed there in the first place!)
And it is natural to instinctively believe that of those choices, certainly, it would be better to come to that magnificent mountain or that life giving ocean than to face the edge of the cliff.
But things are not always what they seem.
The Chinese say that a journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.
Duh.
But, they also say....go as far as you can see...and then you will see farther.
It has taken me almost fifty years to realize that this is how I have lived my life.
And to realize that for all of the breathtaking grandeur of the Sierra Nevada or the beautiful all encompassing majesty of the Pacific, neither offers any more safety nor security of safe arrival than the edge of the cliff.
Because, at one point or another, to live, to be alive, you have to keep moving forward.
And that changes everything. Because now, instead of celebrating journey's end at the welcoming foot of the mountain, or the warm, toe lapping kiss of the sea, we are faced with three new choices......
We start climbing the mountain.
We set sail on the sea.
We take a leap of faith.

My life, thus far, has been a continuous, determined, sometimes dangerous, sometimes disorganized journey. A search not for the end of the road, but a fuller and deeper understanding and appreciation of all those things I have enjoyed...and experienced....and endured...along the way. I remember writing once that if my life was a movie in progress, there are many days I would have gotten up and walked out on the damn thing, the only thing keeping me in my seat my own stubbornness, my potentially fatal curiosity, my determination that this can't possibly be the plot, I've paid for my fucking ticket and I'm going to sit here until I find out how the damn thing ends.....
And, somehow, somewhere during that part of the picture where I am ready to stand and go, ready to demand, but not really expecting to get, a refund for my ticket, something happens, the plot twists, the story jumps and jolts me, sitting my ass back down and renewing my belief that this may, in fact, turn out to be one hell of a movie.
The plot is thickening as we speak.
And, once again, I am fascinated by what I am seeing. This character that has appeared out of nowhere and set the plot off in a different direction. And I am intrigued and enthralled and excited and stunned and not just a little scared. I watch this character with big wide eyes and can feel myself settling back in to my seat, distracted from the last few meandering minutes and hungry to pay attention, watch, learn anything and everything about this character. I want to stand up in the aisle and yell out “hey! where did you come from? what makes you laugh? what makes you smile? who are you and what were you before, who did you know and what did you think? (okay, so sometimes a Bogart line is better than anything I could conjure up).
I cannot do that, though, for those around me would think me rude, thoughtless, at best, selfish and hurtful at worst. So, I must sit quietly, fidgeting in my seat, eyes locked on the screen, ears perked and anxious to hear, brain whirring along at a thousand miles an hour to soak in every little line of dialogue, lest I miss something, some little key piece that I will need to know later to make sense of the ending.
But my life is not a movie. It is a flesh and blood and heart and soul reality and I don't have the luxury of being able to watch it unfold from the comfort of the padded swivel seat and the safety of the darkened theater.
I have to actually be in the damn thing.
And those plot twists and turns and jumps, twist and turn and jump all around me and above me and behind me, not just up where I can watch them at a cool, secure distance.
So, I must climb the mountain.
I must set sail on the sea.
Or I must take a leap of faith.
For to be alive, I must move forward. I must continue the journey. I must honor this gift of life by walking through it, not sitting in it.
A line I happened upon a long time ago........”a ship is safe in harbor........but that's not what ships are for.....”
So true. So wonderfully, amazingly, exhilaratingly, dangerously, fucking irritatingly true.
All signs point to me believing that. I must, because whenever I find that I have let my ship drift into safe harbor, calm, complacent, secure, uneventful safe harbor, I shake myself out of my stupor, trim fore and aft and set sail again, weather be damned, full speed ahead, feets don't fail me now (sorry).
What I'm looking for isn't just out there somewhere.
It is just being out there.
Sailing on the sweet soft waves of a summer's wind and hanging on for dear life when the wave rises so terrifyingly high as to block the sun.
It is walking up the gentle grassy slope to a shady wooded spot and clutching desperately when my foothold slips and all that exists between me and a decidedly unappealing end is a thousand feet of air, straight down.
It is closing eyes, breathing deep, praying hard and jumping right off the edge of the precipice. Totally turned on, scared to fucking death and amazed and exhilarated when the fall lets me down easy, into a sweet, new forest, with a new path to walk.
To live, to be alive, I must move forward.
And my life has been a continuous journey to do just that. Searching not for the end, but the experience, the freedom, the exposure.
And searching for someone who shares the same passion and must move forward, as well.
To share the journey, share the road, comfort each other, cajole each other, inspire each other, motivate, teach and learn from each other, loving hard and real and giving and caring and willing to sacrifice when sacrifice is called for while not willing to cut one fucking inch of slack when weakness or fear lets apathy and mediocrity threaten the desire to share.
Not an easy pair of hiking boots to fill.
But, she's out there, just as sure as the startling crisp oranges and reds of autumn's goodbye and the icy, white embrace of winter's grip will give way to the brilliant cardinals and robins and denizens of spring.
And all I need do to find her is....
Climb the mountain.
Set sail on the sea.
Take a leap of faith.

I was rambling on, the way I do, trying to get a grip, anything resembling even a tenuous hold on the steering wheel of this renegade bumper car of a life, when it came to me faster than a speeding bullet.
I know exactly how Superman felt.
First, though, I suppose it's only fair to provide at least a primary coat of background paint to this little artwork, if only to give you some context with which to view, observe, appreciate or critique depending on your tastes.
I was asking myself out loud what little character flaw it could be that has found me gently, if not cautiously, nudging fifty, a medium sized U-Haul trailer full of slightly bent, but sincerely intended, marriages, relationships and a twenty six and a half volume set of failed attempts at soul connection in my portfolio and still I can't seem to satisfy that little gnawing need that keeps popping up in my heart, like the trick candle that comes back to life blow after blow after blow (Freudians, begin taking notes here).
Subtitled for the philosophically challenged:
Why can't I get no....no satisfaction.
The more I spoke about the women in my life, the more it began to occur to me that it wasn't really that the women had been in and left my life, so much as it was that I had simply, ultimately, been only traveling through theirs.
A minor, but key, distinction, I think.
At first, I thought Prince Valiant Syndrome. That overwhelming urge to radar in on the nearest damsel in distress, gallop in on the trusty white charger (or blue, piece of shit Toyota, as the case may be) and swoop lady fair up, up and away from all the tears, fears and years of unhappiness, male inflicted lack of self esteem and general household chores.
Actually it's just garden variety hero complex. PVS just made it sound so much more cavalier and debonair, n'cest pas?
It made sense to me. After all, no matter who the woman was or what part, if any, I played in her getting to that place she was seeking, there was always a moment, as inevitable as death and taxes, when the angelic light would begin to dim, the really poignant James Horner soundtrack music would start to fade and the royal carriage would turn back into the wheel less pumpkin.
And they would be out of my life.
It never really occurred to me that I was out of theirs.
Arrogant fuck.
Eventually, it started to seep into my brain, like the tiny little sliver of water that works its way through the earth, at first no more than a barely visible trickle, then, slowly but surely, a small line of clearly visible running water, gently, but certainly, softening the earth around it until VA-VOOSH!. The dam is toast, the flood gates are useless and villagers run in terror for their lives.
Or maybe I just finally get something through my boyish, tousled, albeit rock hard, head.
My little trickle turned into a va-voosh today. And as I felt wave after wave after surging wave wash over me, it came to me immediately, faster than even Fed Ex could have put it in my hands.
I know exactly how Superman felt.
And why he never married Lois Lane.
For I have known a thousand women, coveted a hundred, loved a dozen and deeply loved two or three.
But still find myself looking for the one.
The one.
Hmph. The one. A romantic myth conjured up to give ourselves a fallback position when boredom or apathy or indifference or any of the thousand little pins that fly around in the life appear, just waiting for the chance to pop our little love balloon and send it spritzing around, losing steam, growing weaker until it becomes nothing more than a little, shriveled up piece of rubber lying on the ground, a symbol of a party over, a celebration concluded, a happier time now only a sentimental wrinkle in some lobe of our brain, where such things are stored.
The one.
The myth.
Or?
Maybe it's not a myth at all. Maybe there is, in the known world, one single solitary person who would fit into these arms..and heart...and soul as snugly, tightly, but comfortably as five fingers slide into exquisitely hand sewn gloves. One single person who knows exactly when to kick me or caress me, encourage me or take me down a peg or two, respect me or deflate me, kiss me or kill me, hold me at arm's length or fuck me until I can't see straight.
Someone who yins when I yang.
And then yangs when I yin.
Someone who can not only deal with the power of my passion, but give it right back to me in equal measure. Someone who understands that I can never be satisfied in the life by any conventional measurement, that I must always be exploring my self, examining my powers, testing my strengths, overcoming my adversities and moving on with excitement and joy and determination to the next set of challenges. The next pounding sea. The next bracing wind. The next torrential rain. The next bright blazing sun.
The next high sierra.
Someone who realizes, without words or warnings. that I may be of this earth. But I cannot be held captive on the ground.
That I must fly.
For that is who I am.
And, the one, that sexy, smart, sensual, serene, strong, single solitary someone who is meant to be the glove for my fingers must be able to not only hold her own.
She must fly, as well.
For mere mortal life will never fulfill me, simple pleasures will only whet my appetite for more, the picket fence around another's dream house will always look like a freshly painted set of bars to me.
Living one day to the next as if they were one and the same is exactly the same as living only one day.
And one day is merely a drop of rain, splashing to earth, evaporating and disappearing, a quickly forgotten chemical composition if it is not followed by another and another and twenty five fucking million more, falling, pouring, cascading down like the very nectar of heaven, with my heart and mind and soul face up, eyes wide shut, letting it cleanse me and excite me and move me, each one hitting my lips, allowing me to know every nuance, every hint of flavor, every glorious, delightful wetness.
I must fly.
And she must fly.
Then, together we can loose ourselves from the bonds of this mortal coil and love, laugh, kiss, struggle, earn, work, cry, yell, triumph, despair, mourn, rejoice, caress, grope, suck and fuck as if there were no gravity, no atmosphere to restrain us, no limit to the sky above us, no end to the universe we would travel together for today and tomorrow and for the rest of eternity.
And to deny that nature, to pretend to be like everyone else, to feign happiness as some cheap antidote for loneliness, is to mislead willing and well intended hearts. And deny myself the life I was meant to live.
I know exactly how Superman felt.
And why he never married Lois Lane.
He loved her deeply.
And he did his best to give to her what he could.
But she couldn't fly.