What If I Turned Left?

Every morning, I leave Starbucks, put on my blinker and make a right turn toward work.

And every morning, a tiny part of me wants to make a left.

Left takes me toward JFK Airport. JFK has airplanes. Airplanes go to Bali.

You see where I’m going with this.

One Venti Iced Americano in the cup holder, one credit card in my wallet and approximately one questionable life decision later, I could be sitting in Seat 14A headed toward a place where nobody knows my name, nobody needs anything from me and I have absolutely no idea what day the garbage goes out. One-way ticket, please.

Of course, I make the right.

I always make the right.

Somewhere along that very familiar drive to work, life begins unfolding around me.

This morning I’m stuck in traffic and glance over at the woman in the lane next to me. She’s on the phone, screaming. Not talking loudly. Screaming.

Her face is tense. Her hands are flying. Whatever is happening on the other end of that phone is clearly not going well.

My first thought could easily be, Lady, it is way too early for this.

But then my mind does what my mind does.

Maybe she was up all night with a teething baby who cried until 4:00 a.m. Maybe she finally got the baby to sleep, crawled into bed for seventeen glorious minutes and then overslept. Maybe her husband just called to tell her they’re out of formula.

Maybe she isn’t angry at all.

Maybe she’s exhausted.

Maybe she’s scared.

Maybe today is simply the day that one more thing became one thing too many.

Traffic moves.

A man suddenly walks across the street in front of my Jeep without looking.

I hit the brakes.

Seriously?

And then again, my brain starts writing his story.

Maybe he was recently diagnosed with dementia. Maybe the neighborhood he has walked through for forty years suddenly doesn’t look quite as familiar. Maybe someone at home is terrified because he slipped out the front door and they don’t know where he is.

I don’t know.

That’s the point.

None of us knows.

Eventually I reach the railroad crossing. The gates are down, so I sit there with my Americano and watch the train pull into the station.

The doors open.

People pour out.

Hundreds of them move toward the parking lot in these strange rippled waves. Work bags over shoulders. Phones in hands. Heads down. One foot in front of the other.

They look tired.

Some look miserable.

And I wonder how many of them got up before sunrise, showered, packed lunches, fed dogs, woke kids, kissed spouses, caught trains, answered emails and did everything they were supposed to do today.

How many are worried about a parent?

A child? A marriage? A mortgage? A diagnosis?

How many are just plain tired?

And how many of them, somewhere deep inside, want to make a left too?

Maybe not to Bali.

Maybe their Bali is opening a bakery.

Writing a book.

Moving to the mountains.

Going back to school.

Quitting the job they have hated for fifteen years.

Traveling.

Starting over.

Or simply waking up one morning without an alarm clock and asking themselves, What do I want to do today?

We spend so much of our lives making the right turn.

And I don’t mean right as in direction.

I mean the right thing.

We go to work. We pay the bills. We take care of our families. We show up. We answer the phone. We make the appointments.

We sit in traffic.

We keep moving.

Right turn.

Right turn.

Right turn.

Maybe that is part of how my blog was born.

Somewhere between Starbucks and work, between railroad crossings and red lights, I started paying attention.

To people.

To stories.

To moments.

To the woman yelling in the car beside me and the man wandering across the street and the exhausted commuters rolling toward their cars like waves reaching the shore.

I started wondering about their stories.

And then I started wondering about mine.

Writing became my little left turn.

I didn’t have to quit my job, abandon my family and board a flight to Bali with nothing but a Venti Americano and a dream.

I could make the right turn toward work and still take a left somewhere along the way.

Maybe that’s what dreams really are. Not always an escape hatch from the life we’ve built.

Sometimes they’re the little roads we finally give ourselves permission to explore.

So tomorrow morning, I’ll probably leave Starbucks and make the right turn.

I’ll head toward work.

I’ll stop at the railroad tracks.

I’ll watch the people.

I’ll wonder about their stories.

And I’ll keep writing mine.

But one of these mornings?

I might just put on the other blinker.

JFK is only a left turn away.

I am beyond grateful to Da-Al for featuring this piece on her site and with her followers. Her work lights me up and at times cry like a baby. I am beyond thrilled to be noticed and offered this opportunity.

Please follow Da-Al at:

Welcome to Happiness Between Tales (and Tails)!

https://www.facebook.com/share/1BhTRzBUGA/?mibextid=wwXIfr