writing for self-discovery

I never intended to move to South Carolina. My cottage on The Farm in northern Minnesota was supposed to be it, my cozy nest near family and elderly friends where I could retire from the world and just BE.

But true to the saying: Change is the only constant, and true to my wandering nature, what was supposed to just be, just isn’t.

My Achilles Heel, the Sirens’ call that, even at this advanced age I cannot resist, is a new horizon. It’s not a greener pasture. The pastures at home in Minnesota are emerald, unless they’re white. The irresistible urge, the inescapable force, is the unquenchable lust for adventure.

It’s not my fault. I inherited genes from Norwegian ancestors whose Viking ships were seen on distant shores as they explored new lands. For me, travel is not a choice. It’s an obsession, a drive so strong that even the slightest possibility of a new door opening has me packed and on my way.

That’s how it was when the opportunity to move here arose. Spontaneous is too slow a word for how quickly I zipped up my carry-on and said goodbye. I left everything behind: my house, my car, my social network, my life, and moved into an empty apartment on the fourth floor of a complex overlooking South Carolina’s Lowcountry.

I used to stare dreamily across fields of spring hay maturing to summer gold, watch V-shaped flights of geese honking their way south in the fall, then endure months of snow-covered everything. Here, the salt marshes present a thrilling new landscape. Atlantic Ocean tides, pulled by lunar threads, collect in ponds bordered by swaying cordgrass.

Snowy egrets float aloft, their long black legs and yellow feet skim the water as they hunt their prey. Then slowly, the moon departs. Sparkling pools become sand once more, and flocks of salt marsh sparrows peck industriously, probing the mud for food. So it goes, day after day, the ebb and flow of life.

Ben Sawyer Boulevard spans the distance from solid land here in Mt. Pleasant, across the marsh and the Intracoastal Waterway to Sullivan’s Island. A bridge swings open for boat traffic too tall to pass underneath.

Many times a day it disconnects us, halting traffic as some no-name barge lumbers through. There’s nothing more frustrating than showing up late for an appointment on the island because water traffic took precedence.

It’s one of the adjustments to a more laid-back, southern lifestyle. I take it in, processing, pondering. This transition has been all-consuming. I’m glad I’m here, deeply involved in the day-to-day of my daughter’s and granddaughters’ lives. But, trust me in this, there’s never a dull moment.

Vikings set out to conquer. Maybe I did, too – conquer loneliness, boredom, a sense of purposelessness – the terrifying thought that this was it, the end, the last chapter.

Here, there’s no chance that I’ll go gentle into that good night, not with the unleashed exuberance of my grands! Thanks anyway, Dylan Thomas. Philip Larkin’s poem captures my situation more aptly: Kick up the fire, and let the flames break loose!

Ah! The alarm I set is ringing. It’s reminding me that it’s time to pick the kids up from school. See what I mean? I have purpose!