I am moving to the other side of my bed.
For sixteen years I've slept on the side of the bed where my former husband slept. At first, it was a symbolic action: his side of the bed held the clock alarm, the lamp, the remote. I took control of the lamp and my life when I moved to that side after he decamped. For many long years now, habit pinned me to the left side of the bed. Only heaven knows why I sleep so close to the edge of a queen-size bed when there's no competition for space.
I rode 30 miles yesterday. And for the first time ever, I rode through the barricades without fear. Two months ago, I hated riding on the shoulder of the highway—those 18 inches of asphalt between the giggle strips and the ditch felt like a long series of barricades. Yesterday, the weeds were so overgrown I had only about a 6-inch clear path, but that was enough.
Something amazing happened this summer: I started to feel my body, learned to judge where I am in space and time. It is a gift to be present, and I'm taking that presence to the opposite side of the bed. Maybe someone will appear to fill the left side.