The pages turn at the same rate of speed no matter how many words are on them or how slowly one reads. In the time it takes a heart to beat, we’re looking at so little sand that counting the grains as they pass almost seems possible.
There was the day in 1971 I sought redemption. That job I thought would hold my attention until Goddard College could teach me – I didn’t get it. To right my self-esteem, I journeyed to London. And ended up at the Witcomb family’s front door.
It was never my plan to do this. Until it was. The first decade was about denial. I can leave anytime. And in a heartbeat, I began to accept my place. Did I ever get even? Has anything been redeemed? I didn’t want to be a bicycle maker. I became one.
Fate is a word I can’t define. Is it like the wind, taking us from the left all the way over to the right? What say do we have? If we stand around long enough, will our names be called? We get a turn. The lucky ones may get a few. And then it’s up to the next in line.
We’re not born with a playbook. If we stay light enough the wind can catch us and blow us around a bit. We never land. Because the wind is ever-present. And before long, we have stories to share. Advice to parse out. And a life lived.
All This By Hand
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