Telling of Adventures

Today as I was making a feeble attempt to connect with a niece who is suddenly “of age” and starting to spread her own wings of adventure balanced with responsibility, I found myself pulling up pictures taken two years ago during an impromptu cross country trip, when I “gave up” waiting on multiple failed attempts to sell a small farm in rural Kentucky, hoping to get on with life.  I’m not sure my niece was impressed in the way I’d hoped.  Sometimes I think my family labeled me a wild card along the way, since my life hasn’t followed a traditional trajectory , after being a stay at home Mom for 18 years—- maybe not someone to be trusted as a desired influence on developing young adults. I get it.  No problem.  It’s my life, not theirs, and maybe someday, without meaning to or honestly caring to, I will “make someone proud” because I’ve followed promptings in my gut that no traditional career choice has seemed to afford.

As a last minute “tag along” to my oldest son’s relocation road trip from the east coast of Maryland where he’d grown up, to answer the allure and promise of fresh inspiration in the Pacific Northwest, I had decided in the summer of 2015 to pack my car with camping equipment, two companion dogs, a laptop and camera, and enough food to last for a few miles on what would be a long road trip.  I locked up the farm house, and notified a neighbor of my intentions to be gone for a while. I had no reason in a down economy to stay, beyond selling the farm eventually.  It was a journey I’d thought about, and had hoped to be on the other side of a property sale before launching into, but it was a gut response to a need for a new adventure to prevent getting stuck in a place I needed to gain distance from and grow beyond sorrow and disappointments.  It was a place where time stood still, and I wasn’t willing to become a petrified statue, alone in a place that no longer had the promise of being my “home”.  So I called my son, David, making his way west, and arranged to meet him at a campground in Ohio where he had planned a night’s stop over. My joy was complete and the journey became real when I saw his youthful frame emerging from the compact car stuffed to the gills with his few earthly possessions and musical instruments.

Today, two years later, I find myself pining for the same kind of adventure to witness, once again, the vast and varied lands and people defining the western part of our nation. In an attempt to turn my focus away from the feeling of being stuck in a sand trap where I’d rather not stay, in the southeastern quadrant of a diverse country,  I will work my way out of flat-lands below sea-level, by writing about a journey that once before broke the iron bands of  “sameness”, hoping memories revisited and more clearly defined will energize and position a new vision to spring forth.



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