It was a snow day. For children set free from the classroom, a lovely idea. For many others, a snow-day means an avalanche of additional work. Rising before dawn to access road conditions. Administrative work of cancellations and re-schedules and no-shows. If one has a critical healthcare job and must go to work, wondering who will watch the kids. For contract workers and some hourly workers, the added stress of no pay that day. Snow days may be beautiful, but snow-days are extra work and less pay.
As often happens with a snow day, her extra work began the day before. Sunday. A day of rest with up to 12 inches of new snowfall expected. It was snowing when she rose. She shoveled off the first few inches, took a hike and returned and shoveled the next two inches. Bathed. Pursued the practice of music. Shoveled snow again in partnership with a neighbor. Made a last sweep of the sidewalks before darkness fell and then slept the usual sleep of an aged snorer.
Rising Monday morning, she realized the weather had not rested at all. Again she joined her neighbors to clear the sidewalks and automobile windshields. Physical exercise enough, but for mental health, she insisted on pursing a walk anyway. The sun was out. The snow glistening. “I am not going to let the urgent demands of snow removal and appointment cancellations rob me of the enjoyment and beauty of this day!” she said trudging forward.
Accordingly, she walked to the hardware store and purchased a snow saucer. Visited the grocery for the requisite essentials; milk, bread, olive oil, soup crackers, bacon. Transported her purchases home on the snow saucer across the packed snow; tow-rope in one hand and hiking pole in the other. Stowed the groceries and headed to the nature trail with the saucer, in complete and utter defiance to the knowledge that office work was calling; calling several hours earlier due to snow cancellations. But beauty was also calling. Fun was calling. For too many years she failed to heed the call of beauty or of fun. She is now an old lady. Fun cannot wait any longer. The office can wait its proper turn.
When is one old enough to break the rules? Those rules. The rules one sets for herself. The rules such as, complete all your work before play, clean your plate before desert, respond to the urgent needs of the moment before meeting your own needs.
It is a gray day, but nevertheless, she took a walk in an old familiar place. Not in the beauty of the town she loves to call home; but in gray dirt and shale, the scent of mud flats and sodden tumbleweeds; the endless racket of commerce without artistry, vitriol without understanding.
This is not her home, but this is the place she grew up, graduated high school, was raised and peered, and taught by people who didn’t really understand who she was meant to be – only who they thought she should be. She spent far too many years here-not only in growing up but in boomeranging anytime life or relationships treated her meanly. Some would say this is her hometown. It has been a refuge of sorts; but a very prickly refuge.
She visits. Because people she knows and loves live here. And because people she knows have died here. But today is not a day for her to die, because this is not the place she would choose to be when she dies. She wants to die in a beautiful place. And because she wants to be alive while she yet lives, she showered and ate breakfast and took a walk. She walked along roads now paved that used to be rural wandering paths. She knows these canal banks and bicycle jumps and crisscross roads. This is not paradise for her. But walking or hiking is always a good choice to iron out the kinks of one’s emotions and thinking. By and by the forward strides pumped the blood and oxygen to her heart and brain and she began to breath deep, to be thankful for the many miles she logged on these very roads and paths. Wow, so much water under the bridge for being a desert region. Here is the road she walked almost daily while recovering from marriage number one. But back then it was only a dirt path. There is the 90s brick condo she coveted for her own independent living space when she re-lived here one time while trying to get back on her feet. But there, across the road, that’s the brick house that became the home of the character Carolyn Flannery in the book “The Right Woman for the Job.”
Did she really write a book? Yes, she did. She said she was retreating here to write a book, and she did what she said she would do. And now, she doesn’t live here anymore. But she can be grateful, so grateful for the inspiration. And gratitude is the gateway to feeling good, and feeling good leads to effervescing glimmers of happiness. And glimmers, glimmers soon make it a beautiful place.
Keep the good. The good is as much a part of your past as the difficult. Keep the gratitude. And soon, anyplace can be a beautiful place.
It is an allegory. It is steampunk. It is a little bit novel. It is now available from Amazon and other major book distributors – also from your favoite bookstore – ask for it. Here is a sample of my favorite characters and my favorite chapter.
Stalking the Sleuth
Traveler was being followed. He sensed it from the moment he exited the train. It was a new sensation. For the traveler, open and transparent as he was, was still used to being nearly invisible, sleuthing from the sidelines. It did not feel like a malicious sort of stalking, it was more like shadowing, anticipating. For instance, how did this person whom he had not yet seen – merely felt the eyes and their constant following of his every move – how did this person know he would be on the train? Traveler had not known himself whether he would drive or ride until a few hours before departure. Traveler stood for a moment on the station platform and wished he had his Convie. What am I thinking, he asked himself. I have two sturdy legs and walking is so beneficial to clarity of conclusion.
Followed or not, he was hungry. He turned into his favorite establishment on the wharf and ordered a basket of fish and chips and half a pint of the local ale. Fishing nets and colorful floats adorned the walls. Over the years, hardwood floorboards had been worn to a patina by the constant comings and goings of locals and tourists. Places this popular rarely have extraneous personal space. Every inch was shared with a constantly undulating crowd. Traveler was no sooner seated at a table then he was joined in quick succession by three other persons, two male, one female, constantly in motion changing places like musical chairs as an order number was announced or someone spied a friend, waved, and changed position.
Receiving his order, Traveler closed his eyes and savored the fried sea aroma curling up from the steam. Another basket slid onto the table and a sinewy male eased expertly into the neighboring seat.
“What is your interest in my sister?”
Traveler looked up into cool and intelligent blue eyes and held their gaze for a few seconds.
“Sean Journey, analyst,” said the man, extending a hand.
The traveler shook hands silently, reached for the malt vinegar, fingered a chip and waited.
“You show up in the city and ask background questions of the flakey receptionist. Next, on a road trip, you stop at a little café that just happens to be owned by my parents. No doubt, they gave you volumes of information couched in opinion. Assuming you were capable of distilling the information from the opinion; your next stop was obviously here, where my sister spent some of the most enjoyable and enlightening years of her life.”
“You have tracked me this far, including following me from the train station. You are an analyst.” Traveler met Sean’s eyes again and continued, “You have to ask what my interest is in your sister?” he paused. “I wear a trench coat, I have a fedora, how is it you did not assume I am a private investigator hired by the man himself to track Precious?”
“Puh!” The analyst nearly spat. “That man never had a modicum of initiative. He could find her easily enough on his own if he cared to take the trouble.”
“He wants her back.”
“He wants her to come back, you mean –without him lifting a finger.”
“You have a close connection with your sister.” It was a statement, not a question.
“My sister is kind and caring. Growing up twenty months apart, it felt like we were twins. She protected me. She is a very loyal person.”
Traveler began, “You say Precious is kind, caring and loyal. It seems so out of character for her – from what I have learned of her character – that she would leave the man.” Again, it was an observation, not a question, and the traveler took time to bite off a portion of batter-dipped cod and chew thoughtfully.
The analyst fetched a checkered napkin, wiped his mouth and again made eye contact.
“Precious has an Achilles heel.”
Traveler raised an eyebrow.
“She can’t help rescuing people.”
“That is the compassionate thing to do,” shrugged the traveler.
“Once she rescues them, they make her feel responsible to care for them. When she draws a line and is no longer responsive to plaintive whining, they accuse her of being insensitive.”
Traveler thought back to the helpless wail that first drew his attention to the cave.
“How did she come to connect with the man in the first place?”
“It was here, at the Western Conservatory of Earth Studies. Precious had a work-study assignment in the botany department. She was building the terrace at Salt Park. It looks out over the bay. The botany department was eradicating noxious weeds and studying plants native to the area. The man, as you already know, was a botany student. His field study and her work shifts overlapped.
“She was cute. She had a fascinating set of tools, so he followed her around like a puppy. And she responded to his needs, encouraging him, complimenting him, building him up.”
“So Precious encourages people and builds them up?”
“Yes, she is always adapting and giving the benefit of the doubt. As a result, people depend on her.”
“It is a credit to her strength of character that your mother has not prevailed on her to move back home.”
“Yes. And one of the greatest disappointments of my mother’s life to find that they are not joined at the hip in every opinion.”
Salt Water Park
Traveler’s basket was empty. The two men rose together in a sort of natural synchrony and headed out the door. Traveler set a course for Salt Water Park and Sean Journey fell into step beside him.
“We have dined together with perceptive conversation,” stated Journey, “but you have not yet identified yourself and your interest.”
Again Traveler mused on the oft-asked question. He preferred not to answer directly. There is no succinct and simple way to reply; “I am a traveler, scribe and cycloptic seer for the core.” It leads only to complication. First, most people think you are joking. The common man, meaning the majority of homo sapiens populating the earth, would guffaw and snort, “You think you go around seeing Cyclops?” Sean Journey was a human of no ordinary intellect. He had shared honestly. The ball was now in Traveler’s court.
“I am a traveler, scribe, and cycloptic seer for the core,” he replied.
“Meaning you work for the Cranial Reservoir,” stated Sean. “Why the qualifier, cycloptic?”
“I am a visionary of only one eye,” said Traveler. “Were I to see with both eyes, I would be omniscient, omnipotent. As it is, I observe wisdom. I am able to see imperfectly into the behavior and motivation of others. Once glimpsed, the motivation and personality fascinates me. I travel to ferret out the needed wisdom for each relationship observed. I scribe. The results of seeing and scribing are uploaded to the global Cranial Reservoir – all the collected wisdom of the ages.”
“You upload directly to the Cranial Reservoir?” queried Sean.
Traveler smiled, “There is a good bit of residue and affinity for the past in me. I first make my notes on papyrus tablet. The very act of writing is stimulating to thought – therapeutic to confusion. Once I reach the conclusion, my results teletransport to the core cranium.”
“They pay you to upload facts?”
“Sometimes hard facts; more often truth couched in myth.”
“I have accessed the Cranial Reservoir many times in my profession – more often in the classifications of military behavior.”
“My work is about relationships.”
As the analytical silence grew, the men sat musing with similarity of mind. Sean absently caressed a Michaelmas aster and then hefted a black volcaniclastic rock the size of a bowling ball. Fire glass.
“All that rot about Precious loving rocks inordinately? The goblin princess accusation?” said Sean. “Precious loves rocks for what they are, a normal part of our earth surroundings. She also, as you know, loves jewels and gold and silver – for their excellence. The man, he tends to objectify. He loved rocks only because they were pretty – and because Precious was good at rocks. He is a covetous being. He craves for himself everything someone else has. Precious was naturally gifted with the ability to know just which rock fit in which space as she built that terrace with our father, Petros. Then, she went to college and graduate school to find out the latest techniques for identifying gold and minerals. The man, on the other hand, absorbed Precious’s successes for himself along with appropriating her tools. He seemed to think whatever Precious did, he could do better just because he was the masculine portion of the team. He wanted to stay home and enjoy rocks without having made any effort to learn about them.”
Again, Sean and the Traveler rose from their flagstone seats in tandem. As though with one mind, they headed toward the beach. As they walked, Sean probed for more details about Traveler’s work. “What do you consider your most valuable contribution to the Core – to the Cranium?” asked the analyst.
“Frankly, I come to many conclusions that I choose not to upload to the Cranial Reservoir.”
“You remain covert? You withhold information?” queried the analyst, almost, but not quite accusingly.
“That is one thing I would never willingly do: withhold a discovery that would make life better for all. But there is significant danger in serving up truth before the time is right. Precipitous truth could cause a Lady MacBeth situation on your hands.
“You understand the process, of course. After much research and observation, information is uploaded / teleported to the Reservoir. Everyone has access to the Reservoir — and the Cranium, but few go to the bother to digest and think. It is much easier to let others digest the information and broadcast it in 60-second sound bites. Besides, the process to final truth and familiarity with the Universal Cranium is life-long and seems unrewarding to the average seeker.
“Once the information reaches the Cranium, it goes through an extensive process. Anything that is not precise truth is sloughed off. Unscrupulous – or maybe just ignorant- individuals harvest the debris and make their living – and their power – from it. It is this detritus in the hands of well-meaning, but misguided individuals that can inadvertently cause spiritual abuse or emotional abuse. Detritus adds a lot of pressure, stress to the lives of sensitive souls. I want to be overly careful. That is why I withhold; until I am sure – sure that everything I upload is precise – so that I do not add to the detritus.
“There are things that people believe so heartily to be truth they would stake their life on it – maybe your life too. For instance: you must have meat and eggs for breakfast before you have pie.” Traveler paused, and then asked the rhetorical question, “Is it wise to eat a healthful breakfast before pie? Yes. Might an omelet serve the purpose just as well – or better- than biscuits and gravy?” Traveler raised his eyebrows into question marks.
The analyst gave a rueful smile.
Traveler continued, “Is it imperative that children respect their parents? Yes. Must adult children follow every word of advice that falls from the lips of antiquated ancestors in order to show that respect?” Traveler paused for a moment and let the question hover. “Myths that hold the essence of truth may cause simple minds to make a shrine of the shell. They worship the vehicle of truth rather than the truth. They make sacred the cow rather than simply being nourished by the meat.”
It was not often Sean Journey found himself in the presence of someone both safe and intellectual. He proffered a rare insight from his personal life. “I respect my dad for his philosophical, good-hearted patience and perseverance. I love my mother because she gave birth to me and nourished me, meeting my basic needs when I was young. But very seldom do I find it comfortable to visit Castle Rook.”
It is more truth than myth, the idea that struggling musicians, actors, and opera aspirants work in a deli while waiting for a big break. It is vintage legend and it is just as true today in any music city as it was 100 years ago. New York, New Orleans, L.A. Durango. Yes, Durango. I heard the tourists talking as I sat at the piano at Jean-Pierre French Bakery during the recent Blue-Grass Meltdown. They were talking about the prolific amount of musical talent in such a small town – especially the pianists. Very true. The Strater Hotel anchors the other end of the same block as Jean-Pierre and boasts two restaurants and one saloon. The Diamond Belle Saloon is historic and famous and houses a grand old upright piano. During the season – May through October – there is a continuous line-up of ragtime pianists playing every night of the week. The most famous is Adam Swanson – four-time World Champion Old-Time piano player. Another piano man appearing regularly at the Diamond Belle is Daryl Kuntz. He and his brother have been in the movies. Daryl also plays piano one morning a week at Jean-Pierre. I cover Saturday and Sunday mornings.
For my side-hustle, I administer the private lessons schedule at Stillwater Music.
So I get to meet them, 25 or 30 of these aspiring and practicing professional musicians, as they carry out another traditional side-hustle of musicians – private lesson teacher.
She is a musical theater major, an opera singer headed to graduate school, and she gives voice lessons three days a week to students of all ages, five-year-old Disney princesses to 65-year-old choral singers. She also cleans houses to supplement her living – and walks dogs – and works evenings in a liquor store.
He is a coffee barista who manages one of the many, many hip coffee shops in Durango. He also is an accomplished fingerstyle guitarist who plays, bass, mandolin, and uke. Other musicians refer to him with the nickname Prophet of Jazz. He has not always been in Durango, but he always comes back.
He is a much revered, most veteran of piano teachers; so laid back he could be a bass player. He has toured with his guitar, finished his piano degree as a young adult and married man, and sometimes takes time off to attend his son’s soccer games. His son also plays cello. His daughter; piano. He used to take time off to tour with Chevel Shepherd on keys and guitar. I am not sure whether being a sought after gigging musician and recording studio staple is his side hustle or weather teaching 32 students a week is his side hustle. But either way, he is making a full-time living in music.
She will ride in the Iron Horse Bicycle Classic tomorrow – all the way to Silverton – on a bicycle – racing the train. She only graduated college a year or so ago – with a double major. She has 30 piano students and is dedicated to giving them her best. As a side hustle she accompanies for the local middle school and works mornings at the golf-course. She will leave for graduate school in the fall, but she will keep as many of her students as possible online, because even in graduate school, you’ve got to have a side-hustle.
She likes the word micro-dose. Not a fan of anything excessive. Small amounts always for her. Also, her motto is; be grateful for what you have. Enjoy it! Anyway, that’s how the woman in the following narrative feels.
I don’t know about you, but it takes her awhile to ease into vacation – to return to what she does with free time besides the polar opposites of doing absolutely nothing and sinking into ennui; or going crazy because there is nothing to do and she is a little busy body, a workaholic, a worry achiever. There are other circumstances to consider. It seems her stated or private goal for this break was to get plenty of sunshine, stock up on endorphins, and she found herself snowed in for 48 hours in a black and white landscape. It could happen. Yes, it happened to her on Spring Break.
She longed to take long hikes in the sunshine, relaxing soaks in a hot springs, shopping escapades in a resort town, writing adventures in a coffee shop. She knew a couple once who planned a vacation in Cozumel and arrived to find the weather rainy. They simply got back on the plane and rerouted to Mazatlán. She has never had the bank account necessary to rally in such a situation.
So anyway, after 48 hours of black and white she rose, found the outdoor pool vacant and commenced 100 finning strokes on her back with snowflakes regularly kissing her face. She soaked in a vapor cave, ate oatmeal in her room, edited a manuscript, packed the car and headed down the road. She stopped at the Dennis Weaver Memorial Park that always clears her head, centers her attention, provides inspiration and gives her an optional musical outlet on the eaglet chime bars. She locked the car, slipped into her backpack purse, hoisted her umbrella and took a brisk walk in the rain. She walked right on into town and commenced a little shopping trip at the Second Chance Thrift Store where she always finds elegant castoffs. A familiar voice called her by name and she turned to hug a former colleague now anything but retired in Ridgeway. They enjoyed a mini chat-a little laugh of mutual understanding. Together they stowed her purchases safely in her own environmentally friendly lightweight stuffable shopping bag made from recycled plastic. She retraced her steps up the trail, through the Nature walk, across the abandoned and repurposed railroad bridge to where her car was parked. Once inside the car she enjoyed a favorite repast-guac and chips- and contemplated her most recent activities.
You can have a little mini vacation, you can sample all the activities you want to enjoy, all in one day. Hike, shop, socialize, write, bask out of doors — I’m going to call it microdosing vacation.
Your payroll information has arrived. I love those words. Instantly, I am humbled. Once again, I am provided for. True, by the work of my own hands, my efforts. This is not a handout or a free gift. I have been paid. Paid for my expertise, my organization, my ability to persevere. True, I have put forth the effort, given my best work ethic, earned these dollars. But I have been acknowledged – acknowledged with a paycheck. Why does this continue to amaze me? Because I know that feeling, that tired, burned out, wrung-out feeling of giving my all; throwing myself into a project and reaping too little reward for too big a piece of my life. I have experienced much in six decades. I have been self-employed and been the self-sacrificing partner of the self-employed. I have been a business owner and have also been a paid employee in times when every earned cent was spoken for before it transferred to my account. Survival for the next 30 days was precarious, outcome unknown. Your payroll information has arrived. The financial math is done. A plan is laid. The money will be parceled out. Some to share. Some to save. Some to spend. Bills will be paid. Your payroll information has arrived. Your needs are provided for. Be at peace now for 30 days.
Would we ever have adventures if we always had something to live for? Some of us would, I am sure. Some are always giving it their best shot, always repeating, “it’s now or never.” But timid, conscientious rule bound folks like me, would we ever have adventures if we always had something to live for?
She was packing up her minimal overnight cargo bag in the basement of her oldest son’s sleekly remodeled home. One of the last items she folded into the bag was a silk robe – straight from China and straight from China Town. She has considered it part of her wardrobe now for 13 years – used only for light travel – and therefore hung in the back of the closet, unused for much of the intervening time.
2009. That was the year she took off and traveled solo, caught the train to San Francisco, booked a cheap hotel sight unseen, rode the connecting bus from the train station across the Golden Gate Bridge and to her lodging and spent three days exploring the heart of San Francisco, the crooked street, the wharf, the pier. That was the year the sea lion rose out of the water for her and her alone – no one else was on the misty pier – and blew her a kiss. That was the year she forgot to pack a robe. She needed one. Not for her solo motel room. Not for the train. But her next stop was Washington and Seattle where she would be staying with cousins. A robe would be necessary. She purchased a silk robe. She traveled forward, visited cousins and an aunt.
She returned to Colorado glad to have had the experience. Glad to have taken the risk. She went on to take many more risks because she had nothing left to lose. Her kids were grown, gone from home. Her 20-year marriage was over. She had, quite literally not a thing for which she had to be overly responsible. For eleven years she lived alone. She lived and hiked and adventured and worked in beautiful places. Seattle. Utah. Arizona. Once again, Colorado.
These days she hikes and kayaks and plays music and writes and has a great roommate and new friends. Old friends come to visit and hike and explore. Life is good. But as she packs the silk robe from China Town, she asks herself, am I still ready and willing, eager, game for new adventures? Solitary adventures? A little bit of risk? Or has life become so sweet; do I have so much to live for that I can no longer step out of my box and risk a little?
She rarely drags her heels in dread at birthdays. What can you do to stop them? Nothing. The years will march on. So why not party? Eat the cake, blow out the candles and not rue the passing of the earth one more rotation around the sun. But this year? She doesn’t want to turn another year older. She knows these truly are the best years of her life. Sixty-seven has been the best year ever and therefore she wants to stay 67 forever. Finally, she has tasted it all. She has enjoyed the accomplishments she longed for, basked in snippets of affirmation, engaged in friendship, made the decision to enter in to self-confidence, greeted most days with gratitude.
Does she now have it all? Is the bucket list complete? Is it time to fold herself up and return to her maker? She doesn’t think so.
She wants to stay 67 forever because she has finally tasted what life can and should be and she wants more of it. She wants to know the rest of the story. She wants to continue the momentum. She wants to keep saying to younger people, “It gets better! Hang in there! The 60s are a great decade! You have so much to look forward to!”
Still, she would like to linger in this year just a little bit longer, enjoy a second helping of this year’s goodness, perhaps order dessert, savor another cup of tea, a few more hugs and the promise of kisses, another sigh of satisfaction at a job finally, finally well done.
I grew up in a conservative American household with two parents joined for life and two children – one female and one male – just perfect. So far, so good. My mother sewed my dresses, patched my brother’s blue jeans, braided my hair every day and told me what a pretty little thing I was. On Sunday mornings (and Sunday nights and Wednesday nights) we changed to our good clothes and went to church. When I was washed and combed and dressed appropriately my mother told me I looked nice. Frequently, I overheard my father tell my mother he loved her. But there were other things I overheard. I overheard my mother calling herself ugly as she stood in front of the mirror. I overheard her berate herself for looking fat, having a double chin, having short eyelashes (she was the type of conservative who does not wear makeup). She continued to affirm me and tell me I was pretty. Everywhere I went people told me how much I looked like my mother. Who was I to believe? The mother who said I was pretty? Or the mother whom I looked like who said she herself was ugly?
My grown-up life has not been perfect. I have been the wife of two husbands and am now single, solitary. I have made some mistakes over the years. Heaven knows I can see the glaring errors of my exes. But those men are the father – the other parent – of my children. Half of the genetic makeup of each of my children comes from someone other than me. Did I want to raise three children to adulthood the entire time pointing out the fault of their other parent? In that way, would they not learn to hate half of themselves? How much more conducive to character building if I pointed out the strengths and positives of the ex and encouraged the child to cultivate those positives?
My children are grown now, and all successful – each in his or her own way. And still the world around me unravels. Relationships of the younger generation fall apart. Couples who have been together for a decade or so decide to split, leaving the children they share to be shuffled from one domestic environment to another on a weekly basis. Wounded and hurting exes vie for the upper hand.
I have observed at a safe distance while unyielding and self-righteous individuals, in completely asinine fashion, intentionally undermine the influence of the other parent and sow seeds of rebellion and hate.
I have also observed wounded and hurting exes who have triumphed. Those, who in maturity and wisdom have set aside their petty grievances for the sake of the whole health of their children.
I have seen exes fight and hurl insults on social media. I have also seen exes build each other up, compliment and thank each other, in view of the children – and the whole world – on social media. Just like they did when they were in love.
Do me a favor. Do the whole world a favor. For the sake of the children and their emotional and mental health; don’t insult, teardown, or disrespect the parent of your child! Travel back, into the far reaches of your mind to the good times – or the one good time. Find one solid respectable trait for your ex and dwell on that when you talk to your mutual children. Save the other stuff for the privacy of your counselor’s office or the ear of your trusted friend. You may feel that making yourself the perfect hero in the eyes of your child will give them someone to look up to. Yet, to make the other parent – your ex – into a perfect monster is to infer the child is half bad, half detestable, half ugly. Can you not care enough about the child of two individuals; can you not respect and love your child enough to speak respectfully of the other parent? Children grow smart and wise. They will soon form their own opinion about the actions and behaviors of those who fathered and mothered them. Don’t disrespect the parent of your child.
She is 67 and she is abundantly aware that the best years of her life, the most enjoyable, the most productive, are now. She has all she ever wanted. She is livin’ the life. She makes music. She is immersed in music. She plays music for money. She has traveled and lived in many beautiful places – beyond what she originally imagined. She has walked and hiked in sunshine, blessed with the wind to her back and a breeze on her face, and crafted essays that describe her feelings, and lived to see a book or two in print. She has floated more than one river and seen the ocean. She has passed through fields of flowers in bloom at the peak of the Continental Divide. She has experienced the solitude of alone and independent in the wild.
She has birthed children and watched them grow and loved them and been loved in return.
She is 67. She knows what she wants. All she ever wanted is right now. Yet she does not sit on the couch waiting for the bell to toll. No. She wants more. More travel. More music. More beautiful places. More love. More JOY. For the remaining years of her life. Because the two final things on her bucket list are:
Sail into port grandly
Die in a beautiful place
She wants the last thing to leave her body to be music – along with her soul. Or is music her soul? Or is her soul music? She is not quite sure. But she knows they are inextricably twined. And she wants more. Why? Not because she is greedy. But because the cup of life at its fullest evaporates. One must constantly replenish.
To be clear, she feels a little more like The Cranberries and much better treated than Oliver.
Putting One Foot in Front of the Other, Hiking for Life!
