On my side is a lot of wire, some bits of old fabric, a few nails, a pineapple that I forgot to eat before it went bad, and a rhinoceros. And a post it note that says, "In case you were wondering, the water didn't come tonight."
I think it's just that there are so many small holes in the road for me to leap over. They take up all my mindspace and keep me on this side of the door. We need to move. But when? And how? And is Jaya coming? Is she not? What about the dog that we are watching?
I need to go to the market tomorrow. But I need to learn to drive our van, first. I've never driven a car here, on the left hand side of the road, with the stick shift in my left hand. To tell the truth, I'm a little afraid.
But then I'm afraid of a lot of things. And I've kind of learned that the only way to deal with it is to leap in head first, letting all of you get wet until your feet slip in last, and you are swimming. So tomorrow morning, Chinua and I will go out and drive in circles in the jungle, and I hope I don't ruin another clutch, like I did when I learned to drive stick shift with my dear father.
And here's another thing. When the children of Israel wandered in the desert before they entered the promised land, they were afraid all the time. And years went by, and they forgot that there had always been water in dry places for them. Even water from a rock. Food out of the sky. Their sandals never wore out. In forty years, their sandals never wore out.
Fear is in forgetfulness, often. I forget about my life and every jewel, every small cup of water, and I am afraid for the future. But trust doesn't come from looking forward. It comes from remembering, from storing, from searching among pieces of fabric and a few nails and a lot of wire for the things that have always held us up.