The Bindings of Books

Daily writing prompt

Do you trust your instincts?

View all responses

Nope.

I trust my judgment but not my instincts.

My judgment feels like my rich uncle’s library, shelves of books to the high ceiling, a ladder on wheels to roll to the right section, brown leather chairs with lamps glowing yellow on cherrywood tables, thick glass ashtrays.

My instincts feel like Jello packages ripped open on the counter, the red and orange and purple powder scrambled and clumped, the recipes for magnificence, the sweet cherries in red Jello, the pineapple and cottage cheese in green, crumpled in the cookbook from my mother which she died having.

I am no fool. Although it has taken me decades to make this claim. I have followed my instincts to near catastrophe, impulses and yearnings so unreasonable and illogical that I can scarcely remember any moment of grounding. I grew out of this.

Now, when faced with a decision, I almost always decide to wait. I wait to lay awake in the middle of the night, to order and reorder the sequence of events, run my hands over the leather bindings of my uncle’s books. Then I trust my judgment.

This is, I think, what the wisdom of age looks like.