Moose and maple syrup

My wife and I are in Vermont visiting her father and step-mom. They’ve recently bought some property up here. Just an hour ago we were all hiking on the grounds, imagining what the future might hold for this land of moose and maple syrup. Speaking of the future — I’ve been living squarely in it, imagining any and all possible scenarios for my time in Mexico. Banditos. Scorpions. That sort of thing.

I have to take a little road trip to Boston while I’m up here, to pick up a travel visa. New England is beautiful this time of year. It’s cool in the evenings. The houses are old, the floors uneven, the people pleasant. The too-long, too-cold winter is nowhere near at hand.

I’m hoping to recharge the old batteries on this little vacation. There are days I can barely contain my excitement about Mexico, nights I can hardly sleep. I feel like I’m at a critical juncture in my life. Patterns have been hardening these past few years. Limiting patterns of thinking, feeling, and being. I suppose potentials and possibilities necessarily get whittled down a bit as we get older and make choices in life. I’ll probably never dunk a basketball. I can accept that. But connection to spirit, soul, hope — this I can’t let go of, this I won’t surrender. Not for safety. Not for security. Certainly not for comfort.

If it takes TEN years in Mexico, then so be it.