So this is it, or at least appears to be. Six planes within the next four days are scheduled to deliver me into the arms of my beautiful E. Australia has begun waving goodbye, and I am beginning to sense something happening. It is the blank page between chapters turning.
It seems so clear to some what I am flying into, yet the book looks completely open to me. I know E is there and we love one another dearly; I know she has two gorgeous children; I know her house is progressing rapidly; I know the nights there are already freezing and before long the days may be too; I know I have work awaiting. And yet none of this seems solid - just one more story after another; page upon page of words jumbled into sentences, attempting to form some kind of meaning.
Yet the words only make sense when shaped into a mystery: the cleverest in the genre, with all the ingredients creating an image that is destined to be shattered as the facts take hold. A perfect hologram destroyed by the very lasers that made it.
I love mysteries because I can guess and guess and guess at what will happen, and at every turn my guesswork gets shown up, as the inadequacies of assumption invariably do. I love mysteries because entering them makes anything possible. I love mysteries.
And I love that when I ask E if it could possibly get any better than this, her immediate response is always, “Of course it can!”
Of course it can, because what I really love about mysteries is that they can be so much more creative than my imagination. Anything is possible, and here is my chance to see what anything looks like.