Some time last summer, my mother decided she needed an adventure. A permanent one. She figured that before she was too old to actually do something about it, she would relocate to the East Coast. Maybe that doesn’t sound like an adventure to some, but when you’ve lived in one place for over 40 years, and you’re not planning on returning, it’s an adventure. She’s always had wanderlust, and if someone asked me to sum her up in one rich word, I’d say she’s a dreamer. And that’s not anything to be ashamed of.
I am, too.
How does one live any time on this earth without dreams? Without wonderings and urges or hopes to go places different than what she knows best, or become someone other than who she is now?
I can’t imagine.
But I’ve also learned that most often, dreams require work, and sometimes, the timing of all that’s necessary to make them come true is wrong. It takes amazing strength to admit that maybe, you’re just not strong enough to make it work. You’re tired.
My mother, who turned 70 late last year, has, with the help of her sister, once again packed up her little white car, bundled up her cat, Emily, and yesterday set out for home from upstate New York.
She’s outfitted with a trip itinerary courtesy of her brother-in-law, a cell phone, and two daughters and a sister who are at computers, keeping watch of weather, and looking for motels along the way.
Amazing, isn’t it?
I think she is.
Anyone who likes to wander,
ought to keep this saying in his mind:
“Absence makes the heart grow fonder”
of the good old place you leave behind.
When you’ve hit the trail a while
seems you rarely see a smile;
that’s why I must fly out yonder,
where a frown is mighty hard to find!
California here I come,
right back where I started from.
Where bowers of flowers bloom in the sun,
Each morning at dawning
birdies sing an’ ev’rything:
A sun-kiss’d miss said, “don’t be late,”
That’s why I can hardly wait,
Open up that golden gate,
California here I come.
You go, Mom.