Everything is awaiting your impending arrival

Everything is awaiting your impending arrival.

Fresh linen on the bed, an extra blanket for warmth, the window opened to the sea breeze, lovely blooms from the garden collected in a blue vase, the table is laid, and your favorite sourdough bread freshly baked.

Your place of many returns by the sea is ready to shelter you for a while.

The window frames the wide mouth of the Connecticut River, with the morning sun spilling onto the writing desk just below, and the lamp you will turn on as the light fades on the water at the end of the day.

You had called your friend a few days back, on the off chance that the room would be available this time of year. She said, “Yes, do come.” Inviting you to stay at a favorite resting site on your migratory route.

For a decade, you’ve travelled frequently between the New England coast and the French Alps, in different stages of housing – rental, sublet, pet and house sitting, family, friends, even monasteries.

Your grandchildren were growing up on one side of the Atlantic, and your parents were ageing on the other. You wanted to be present and attentive. So you kept yourself busy with language-teaching jobs, staying mobile and flexible. Always willing to travel that extra length when others couldn’t.

You did it for your own satisfaction as much as for life’s demands. It was the right thing to do, and for thirteen years, you wandered with a purpose. Often, you felt like a bird sensing its migratory pulse and knowing where to fly and when to perch. Although being human, not a bird, makes a big difference. Doesn’t it? 

The density is greater, and gravity pulls more strongly. Being human brings confusion, fear and doubt. And questions of costs, duty and choices arise, such as during the memorable week before your mother’s death.

You had a teaching commitment in Boston and a plane ticket, yet your mother was growing frailer by the day. And while the physician wouldn’t tell if she had entered the active phase of dying, you knew you couldn’t leave her. So you changed your plans, and a few days later, your mother passed.

The family was saying their goodbyes, taking turns at her bedside. The priest had come and blessed her. It was your turn to be with her.

She was barely there, but her presence lit the room. Earlier, you had placed the lovely Madonna and Child statuette in her hands. Your mother’s soft features, filled with so much radiance, told you she was meeting her moment – ready – she had prepared herself. When your phone rang, you stepped out, and in the briefest time, she let go of her breath. When you returned to the room, she was no longer there. She had escaped, modest and private as she had lived.

Bereaved, you flew back to Boston and resumed teaching for a while. Then the long nine-year process of handling the gift of an ancestral home between four siblings began. This era is now concluded, and the world has changed so much that travel no longer feels carefree. You’ve grown older, too. A little stiffer. Maybe less willing.

Now orphaned, another kind of pilgrimage is possible, and further horizons are calling. The longing for journeying to the wild edge that will take you beyond yourself remains as strong as ever. And your bag is ready.