Time Travel

I'm home and it's so misty this morning because while I was gone, the earth warmed up and the morning air is cool and so there is fog and the dogwoods are opening and so are the azaleas, purple popping all over the place.
The time has changed over again and that, too is strange. We passed over into the central time zone on our journey and so for a while, I had no idea what the "real" time was and just accepted whatever my cell phone told me because those suckers are smart and the satellites feed them the correct information and it's all a myth anyway, this clock-stuff, this human-agreed upon measurement of the passing of something none of us really understands.
It's time. It's time.
Time for what?
Time to get ready for yoga. Time to plant another row of spinach. Maybe, actually, it's too late for that, not really time, but maybe we can fool mother nature. The peas are coming up.
The wisteria has green fuzzy buds on it. It's time for that.
There was time on our trip to talk a lot and that was fine. Three friends who have found themselves in later age and we have to talk a lot to tell the stories of why we are and who we are and essentially say, "This is who I am and are you okay with that?"
We discussed friendship and how we feel comfortable with certain people immediately and how there is some sort of attraction, some positive/negative attraction and with other people there is none of that so you gravitate to the people you're attracted to. The ones whom you feel are interested in your stories, in how you came to be this person they somehow feel comfortable with, not judged by, accepted by not because of something you wish you were but because of who you are, exactly as you are.
This is tricky stuff, and yet at the heart of it, the simplest thing of all.
The play was fun in that we were together, doing it. The high school where we performed was freezing cold and our audience was, so say the least, scant.
But we did it, twice, and then we tore it all down and they took us out to a beautiful place for food and drinks and it was lovely and by the time we got to bed that night, we knew we'd done something and we felt a bit like a troop of gypsy actors and the little boy at the convenience story where we went to get coffee wanted to throw off his uniform and come and join us. You could tell. His eyes followed us longingly to the door where a giant black man in a Superman shirt held it open for us and his eyes held a different story but we didn't have time to find out what it was.
We had a show to put on.
And now I'm home and it's a foggy morning and time to go to yoga and because of the time change it's just really now getting light and I wish the light would flood into my heart because it's time for me to throw off this darkness that I can't seem to get out of. I feel as if I've locked myself into some sort of closet and I've forgotten where the door is to get out.
It's time to quit losing track of time.
Maybe my friends and my family and the new-coming baby and the wisteria buds and the oaks wreathed in mist and newly born leaves can call to me loud enough so that I can find the way out, see the light beneath the crack of the door, reach for the handle, turn it, step back out.
Maybe there's time to find a balance again, take care of myself better, turn towards the light instead of pulling the black-out curtains around me.
Realize that even the strangest and most bizarre of wishes can be, at least symbolically granted (the black cowboy on the horse, trotting down the street, his back straight- the universe does listen? I don't know but oh, what a story).
What time is it?
Check the clock, check the calender, check the wisteria buds, check the heart, check the mind, check the arms and legs and knees and check the misty morning's breath for honey, for secrets, for stories, for warmth, for clearing, for promises.
I am home. It's time.