I am, perhaps for the first time in my life, consciously drifting.

The word—drifting–has long carried negative connotations for me, conjuring images of lethargy and passivity. It suggests surrendering control rather than seizing it. In my world, to describe someone as “drifting through life” means they lack purpose and energy.

Plus, drifting rhymes with “grifting,” which only deepens its negative associations.

So, when I first realized that I was drifting through my days, I became alarmed. “Uh oh, I better start getting purposeful…fast.” But then I started imagining the “lazy river” section of a water park, where one floats gently on an inner tube, letting the current carry them along. This form of drifting provides a sense of weightlessness and peace. Next, I pictured a log drifting down a river under a warm, blue sky. I began to think of drifting as less about fecklessness, and more about surrendering to the journey rather than focusing on the destination.

Plus, the lazy river is circular, you end up where you started. Is that such a bad thing? I don’t want to be stagnant, but maybe I like the idea of returning home each day.

Drifting is very different from being adrift. Being adrift implies being lost at sea, a tiny speck in a vast, uncharted ocean. In contrast, drifting along a river provides the comfort of nearby shores, making it relatively easy to steer toward solid ground if I really need or want to.

Even as I grow increasingly comfortable with the notion of drifting, I recognize it’s only an interlude. Life’s currents invariably intensify, necessitating decisive action sooner or later. On the other side of the bend, I could be headed toward dangerous waterfalls, or cliffs, or the current might send me spiraling toward a rock. Or maybe I’ll just get sick of the circular motion depositing me where I started every day and yearn for a dramatically different landscape, pace and experience.

At that point, my nature and external events will compel me to make a more deliberate move. It’s just a matter of time.

Until then, I drift.

Johanna Wald lives in Dedham, MA

“Yo, Cory. ‘ssup?” I asked. My curly headed grandson, nodded absently, kept wiggling his thumbs on his cell phone. Polite in his way. Afterall, I was barging-in on the privacy of his screen time, his cyber world. Perhaps some kind of impulse of respect for an elder caused him to punch out a couple more aliens in his computer game before saying, “Hi, gramps.”

He lived in another world from mine. Hell, when I was his age I didn’t have much to share with my grandfather, here from another world across the ocean. He let me participate once, when he made wine. Or the time he made sausage, or offed the Thanksgiving turkey. But mostly it was a ‘kid should be seen and not heard’ relationship and ‘shine my shoes.’ I was basically shouting across the canyon to someone on the opposite ledge.

Still, I want to try. He nudged me with his shoulder between a grunt and a fast click. We might connect, go from there. Technology is different for him than it was for me. I used to lock- in and lock-out over my radio listening to Tom Mix and Tim Tyler and Captain Preston of the Mounties who were left cliff-hanging at the end of fifteen minute episodes or out of breath in underground rivers, or…or. Distractions. Imagination stimulation. Did it harm me?

At the very least, I learned patience, that everything didn’t happen when you wanted it to, that you had to tune-in-tomorrow for answers. Obviously, Cory’s computer link-ups demand more physical interaction with the media. But it’s still about looking for and finding patterns and conclusions in the chaos of life with the added advantage of having some digital control of events…sort of.

So, I sensed a connection with him. “Can you show me how to play?” I asked. Cory simply kept playing till the screen flashed a new total of points. My grandson paused, stared me in the eyes, considering. Then he shook his head, slightly, like I was out of his league. Took me back to the time I didn’t make varsity basketball, or was cut from the state finals track team. Engaged online again, Cory, eventually looked up, checked me out. Must have seen my disappointed frown. He put the cell phone in his left hand and reached to squeeze my arm with his right. Times change. Togetherness perdures.

Retired trainer, and writing instructor, Joe Novara lives in Kalamazoo, Michigan. Writings include novels, short stories, a memoir and various poems, plays, anthologies and articles. Read more at https://freefloatingstories.wordpress.com/