Last night, I questioned the wisdom of driving home the back road over Scenic Loop. My check engine light glowed in the dark and the traffic would be light or non-existent. If I broke down, there would be little assistance available.
The beauty of the moon and the sky's ruffled clouds – both easily viewed if I did drive the more isolated route – countered my doubts.
I have made decisions, dubious ones at times, on less criteria than atmospheric conditions and the stage of the moon. Will my dog enjoy this? Should I give this man, whose smile I like, my contact information? Should the fresh pile of bear scat deter me from my walk?
Occasionally, I formed clearer guidelines to inform my decision-making process. When I was in my twenties, my measure was: Would I remember the outcome in thirty years? Now, I sometimes use the strategy of: Before I die, will the opportunity come my way again?
But mostly, my choices of where to stop, when to watch, and whom I might welcome into my life depend on the slightest of invitations.
The curve of hills.
The shade of water flowing against an old bridge wall.
The rare, super blue moon rising.
Usually, all goes well when I make decisions. After all, I did arrive home with the check engine light still glowing and one gorgeous photo of an adventure on an empty curving road on a moonlit night.