To Cairo and Cathay

Vision board, constructed May 2012

To the Not Impossible Him

How shall I know, unless I go

To Cairo and Cathay,

Whether or not this blessed spot

Is blest in every way?

Now it may be, the flower for me

Is this beneath my nose;

How shall I tell, unless I smell

The Carthaginian rose?

The fabric of my faithful love

No power shall dim or ravel

Whilst I stay here,–but oh, my dear

If I should ever travel!

--Edna St. Vincent Millay  (from A Few Figs from Thistles, 1922)

I'm lost. I've been adrift in open water for who knows how long. No tempest tossed me off my course. No siren sang me to my wreck. The truth is, I've been asleep at the helm.

When I first set sail, my compass was steady and my North Star was bright. I stepped onto the deck, ready to brave the icy sprays and treacherous waves, ready to wrestle with Leviathan. I was guided by a vivid vision of Cairo and Cathay. I knew I'd soon be strolling through fragrant gardens, tasting spiced wine and sweet meat, and resting my weary feet beneath a Moorish wall.

"The desire for safety stands against every great and noble enterprise," warned Tacitus. That was my downfall. I let safety sabotage me. Every day, I ate my ration of lotus buds and went about my duties. Soon, the predictable patterns lured me into a long, lethargic sleep.

I'm just waking up. My compass is in pieces, my charts are a shamble, and my constellations are dim. So I'm relying on the scent of the Carthaginian rose from the invisible shore to guide me. Against my survival instincts, I'm sailing into thunder and fire, into the snarling, sunless sea. 

Cairo and Cathay, here I come!