A brisk summer breeze was blowing in off the ocean this afternoon while I was watering the garden. As I was standing there pointing the hose into the wind, a fine spray was being blown directly back into my face. It came to me that this was a metaphor for my life. I don't plan things very well.
In fact, I hardly plan things at all. Mostly I just let them happen, and react in whatever way will keep me dry until there's another unexpected shower, or keep me on the road until the next bump or bend. If life were frictionless, I'd just slide on through and never leave a mark to show I've been here.
There probably shouldn't be any shocking revelations left about who I am, after writing an online journal entry every day for more than three and a half years. Sometimes I'm surprised that strangers I meet on the street don't know everything there is to know about me.
Why doesn't the supermarket checker ask me about my rosemary potatoes? Shouldn't people walk up to me at random and start conversations about telenovelas, or the Giants' bullpen, or the latest Maeve Binchy novel? Everybody knows what I do, where I've been, and how I feel about everything I feel anything about. Right?
Yet I keep discovering I don't even know very much about myself. And what I think I know is about half wrong, so what good does it do me? Sometimes I paint myself with a pretty broad brush here, even when I'm focusing on narrow details. If you read the last few entries, you might think I'm lazier or grumpier or even less competent than I really am.
I'm all of those things, but sometimes I'm none of those things. It depends on which way the wind is blowing, I guess. Today it was blowing water in my face, and it came to me how poorly I sometimes think things through.