The problem, as I see it, is not what I do, but what I never got around to doing. It was easier back then--way back then, when I knew that unless I toed the line, went to work each day and swallowed my share of crap, I might perish. I think I was blind. People were not dropping dead on sidewalks in front of me, nor starving, but in my little world, I was certain that if I paused or stopped for a nano-second the world would stop spinning.

The idea of copping out, making my own rules, somehow never applied. I had a fierce determination that I could win inside of a structure of disciplines that was authored by someone else. Did those rules work? Sure, some of them. But the pay-off was not what was promised.

One never knows whether the right highway was chosen until the concrete runs out and you find yourself on a dirt path and that's where I'm at.

This forest that has become my new reality lives and breathes entirely because it exists. The trees depend on natural global rhythms, sun and rain. If I told the trees they were purple, they wouldn't shrivel up in shame. Can trees shrug? Perhaps not, but frankly they don't care what colour I see or imagine them to be.

I think I'm the aspen that is growing on the edge of the cliff. A couple of wrong moves and I could crash into the canyon that lies below, but I've got roots that edged, inch by inch towards safer ground, and it would take a freak of nature to tear me up from the solid foundation that anchors me.

I followed the rules, but now that I am no longer tethered to expectations, even the rules are suspect. What's it all about, Alfie? I'm sixty-three and whatever is in my bank account had better last. There's no do-over. If you Google 'how much do I need to retire,' inevitably the question pops up, 'how long do you expect to live?' If I pop in three years, I'm rich. Should I make it for any period of time after that, my wealth is debatable. In the broadest terms, I'm a has-been. What I was, I no longer am. What I can be is a blank canvas. How long do I have to fulfil this phantom goal?

Here's where it gets tricky. Religion aside, let's assume today is my last day on earth. Would I clean up the house so that other mortals were not imposed upon by my trash or would I host a party and give away my worldly goods? Live each day as if it's your last. Yada, yada, yada. Not one of us really believes that we'll die. We have a struggle accepting that oblivion is where we'll wind up and that our lives will be reduced to memories of those that still remember our name. If that memory isn't soft and mushy, who cares? The rules will evaporate before the first shovelful of dirt hits our casket or flames consume our existence.

So here I am, in a forest of purple and orange trees, on a dirt path, kicking unwelcome pebbles with crusty boots and worn out cliches, empowered to make up rules and be the maestro of my days. I can't challenge destiny. In a day or two or three, nothing I did or said will matter, except for this one fundamental truth; once upon a time I had the power to change lives. My words and actions started something, a domino effect that either nourished or starved a life. Was it yours?

Let's start over. Golly, gee, I wonder what I can do today to make the world a better place. For sure, I must be a good girl, make my bed and brush my teeth. I'll be quiet today, mindful of the noise and space I use up. There are children starving in Africa, you know. Did you know? I'll never go to Africa. Mama says I'm curious, but she always says it like it's a bad thing. I won't raise my hand in class today or ask stupid questions. I'll wait for answers. Patience is a virtue, Mama says. Anyways, I'm scared of snakes and they eat kids. That's why I'm never going to Africa, 'cause there are no hungry snakes down there.

Or again...

Yes sir, I'll have that report on your desk first thing in the morning. Of course your reservation is confirmed. No sir, I've never let you down. The flowers were delivered.

Or again...

I can't promise to obey. Not a chance. If we have that sentence in our vows, I can't, won't agree. Why isn't it enough that I'll try to compromise? I take my promises seriously.

Or again...

"If you touch one more thing in this store, I'll cut your arms off. Do you hear me?"

"No you won't."

"It's just as easy to love an armless boy as it is to love you, kid."

"Because I'm perfect?"

"Yes, you're perfectly awful."

Or again...

"The business is floundering. You've seen the numbers. You're going to have to cut your staff dramatically."

"Dramatically?"

"Yes, I need at least a fifty percent reduction before I meet with the board."

"Fine, I quit. That should take care of the numbers."

"You can't quit."

"I just did."

And finally...

Most of my life was operated on remote control. Now that I have the space and time to write the script and chose the scene, I'm not sure how to fit in dialogue or set the mood.

We are all products of our environment and the experiences we have accumulated up to this moment. I'm perfectly capable of evaluating the circumstances of my life and deciding that some are tainted by false information. The really serious issue I have with motivation is the complete vacuum, the information I never got a chance to fondle. It is so much easier to continue the way I know best, but each step is habitual and requires no imagination or conscious thought. Maybe I'm ready, finally, for change.