This is one of the things I wonder about a lot. Wandering is a full time hobby, (if not a vocation), for me. I wander through the fridge in the morning and then wander out on the deck with the cat to view the current shrieking spring-loaded bird population that is looking for fun. Later I drift into this chair or that and poke through one book or another until some bit of prose or pun gives me the ballast to set my anchor for a while. I never feel lost during my perambulations because like a ballet dancer doing a loooong spin there is a place I “spot,” with my heart and brain so I always know where home is.
This spot is hard to describe in words. It is much more a feeling sorta thing. I get it when good things are happening. Sometimes when I’m looking at my toes coming out of the bubbles of a hot bath resembling pale mutant fish or basking in the timely words of a friend or loved one that make my heart sing. I feel it when I open the drapes in the morning and there is marshmallow fog down to the kneecaps of the trees in the neighbors yard. It puts a hand on my shoulder when I re-read the first email my husband sent me on match.com and my heart grows warm as my lap when my cat sits there purring like a feline little engine that could.
My last name is Wendell which comes from valleys that have streams that wander along as they find their way to the sea. Every raindrop on a rose or tear of happiness or sadness always knows how to find it’s way home. If they can so can I.
Wandering has got to be a good thing - you just need a compass. For me, I look for the mossy side of the daily tree and then look up to see what I have to be grateful for. Looking up towards true North has always seems like the Love Direction to me.
© Robin Wendell 2009