Turning the page

When I was very young and the urge to be someplace was on me, I was assured by mature people that maturity would cure this itch. When years described me as mature, the remedy prescribed was middle age. In middle age I was assured that greater age would calm my fever and now that I am fifty-eight perhaps senility will do the job. Nothing has worked. …
In other words, I don’t improve, in further words, once a bum always a bum.
I fear the disease is incurable. — John Steinbeck, TRAVELS WITH CHARLEY

My apartment is cleaned out. The keys have been handed over.  Almost everything is in storage.  Some select belongings are now in my vehicle.  My official home is a mailbox at my friends’ house.

I am sitting at a local coffee shop waiting for a friend to get home. My vehicle will be dropped off, and then I head out of town.

Tomorrow I start to walk across Southern Utah.

And after that walk, time to take to the road.

Part of me is melancholy.  There always is this feeling, at least for me, when I am uprooting my life a bit. I was in place I frankly enjoyed living in with its views towards the mountains, its quiet setting abutting a hidden rural area, and many of my daily needs were in walking distance. The community I’ve built up is being left behind at least for a little while. And, to be honest, there was the start of a possible relationship.  As seems to happen, our timing was off for each other despite whatever was felt during the past months.

But the open road beckons. The cycle of working many hours, recovering, and squeezing in outdoor time needs to be put on hold for a bit.

I don’t know where the wanderings will ultimately take me in the months ahead.

I am excited, a little sad, a small bit nervous, but ultimately happy.

Possibilities are always wondrous. And we’ll see where all those options lead.

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5 Replies to “Turning the page”

  1. Carpe Diem
    Ode 1.11 by Horace
    Ask not (’tis forbidden knowledge), what our destined term of years,
    Mine and yours; nor scan the tables of your Babylonish seers.
    Better far to bear the future, my Leuconoe, like the past,
    Whether Jove has many winters yet to give, or this our last;
    This, that makes the Tyrrhene billows spend their strength against the shore.
    Strain your wine and prove your wisdom; life is short; should hope be more?
    In the moment of our talking, envious time has ebb’d away.
    Seize the present; trust tomorrow e’en as little as you may.

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