When I told my mom I was going to Toronto and New York, she was excited. I didn’t expect that. I thought she’d warn of me the hazards of travel, caution me against making impulsive decisions and tell me that I didn’t know what love was; about that, my mother would have been right. I didn’t know what love was until she taught me at her death. As it turns out, I never made it to Toronto but I made it to New York and while I hated the city I loved the experience. I got to say “I did what I wanted to do” and rather than regret, I got to say “I am content.”
One year later, I’m going to Australia. Not only is it another county, it’s another continent and my mother isn’t here to tell me her opinion. Luckily she was there to show me. Though she wouldn’t often travel herself (turning down my pleas to visit my cousin’s newly built hotel in Idaho), she gave her blessings when I most recently chose to.
Some years ago, when I visited, what was then, my Mecca in Newport, Oregon (Rogue Brewery) she said “Come home.” My mother wouldn’t say the same thing today. My mother wouldn’t miss the opportunity to applaud my efforts and encourage my curiosity because part of what my mother left me are the resources to travel and her blessings for my precursory trip. In truth, my mother would have guessed rightly as to why I was going and rather than say “Come home,” my mother would have said “Go. Do what you want.” “Go” and “want” is what I will do.