Sixty years old—six decades on this earth. I find that simply amazing.
My thoughts keep circling back to a photograph of Ruthie, my mother, holding me in front of my childhood home in the spring of 1958. I think about the multitude of adventures I’ve had, the miles I’ve traversed, the many places I’ve lived and visited.
Sometimes I fall into the trap of comparing myself to more outwardly adventurous friends and family. It’s easy to feel like I’ve been a stick in the mud, that I haven’t done enough. But when I look back at my life, I can’t help but feel profoundly lucky—to have been born when and where I was, to have had the parents I had, warts and all.
It’s taken me more than a few decades to accept my lot in life. I’ve been both blessed and burdened by a deep sense of restlessness—an ongoing tension between the pull to stay and the urge to go. There’s always been a Mary Poppins quality to my psyche: when the wind changes, I feel it tugging at the edges of my soul.
That restlessness doesn’t strike during chaos—it comes after a stretch of stability. Once the roots have started to take hold, the ties begin to loosen. The roots—shallow to begin with—start to release their grip. The wind picks up. And then I feel it: the urge to move. I start cleaning out closets, emptying the basement, scouring the internet for my next landing place.
I’ve always felt like I have a river in my soul.
Sometimes I float gently with the current, lazy and calm. And then—without much warning (though if I’m honest, I’d just stopped paying attention)—the rapids come. The whitewater does its thing, tossing me into the churn. I’ve learned the hard way that fighting the current only exhausts me. Eventually, the river tires of me too, and deposits me on a soft, sandy bend.
It looks like a good place to pitch my tent. Maybe build a cabin. Lay down roots.
Time passes. I settle in. Life gets easy, predictable, familiar. Too familiar. And that’s when I smell it: the air shifting, the water stirring. That old tug at my soul begins again.
The river calls.
And I dive in.
As I’ve gotten older, the rapids don’t sneak up on me like they used to. I’ve learned a few tricks for navigating whitewater without quite so many bruises, without getting pulled under and left gasping for air when I finally surface. Most times now, I know when to hold my breath and close my eyes.
I still end up with water and sand in all the wrong places—but honestly, if I didn’t, how else would I know I’ve been gifted another wild, unpredictable adventure to feed and nourish my soul?
This latest leg of the river brought me to the desert—a place that’s proven to be a feast for the eyes and a balm for the spirit.
The desert.
A fitting stop for someone who’s always believed that a river runs through her life.
I’ll keep you posted.
