Should I be okay with this meandering gypsy moment I am having. Does doing nothing productive at home pale in comparison to doing nothing productive while on the road. Is the nature of being on the road so invaluable that it transmutes the ordinary into something that requires catharsis. How divorced am I from the world I have left in the city of lights? Have I been bolder because I don't have the security of home base?
My car is an unmitigated disaster. Any semblance of haughty organization that has been the linchpin of many fights in our household has deteriorated on the shifting angles of streets smashed precariously across this area. Of course, I have the company of many friends who are hosting me in this journey. Apparently, my company can be some sort of capital. I wonder can i trade presence for showers and wifi forever.
Such journeys are often made in the in one's youth without a sense of obligation towards the fabric of society. One can argue that the virtue of motherhood really demands some examination about how this indulgence is impacting the future generations. I am not unfettered exactly like all those hitchhiking soul seekers before me. Perhaps I could argue it is precisely because I have this fabric I am leaving that makes my journey more tenuous. The cost is greater or perhaps simply more selfish.
Or maybe none of that matters because the only legacy we should leave our children is that of a life so fully lived it couldn't be contained in a simple place of cross stitched home. Ephemeral is an enchanted forest that can always be created for the fairy tales of our lives. It is with such wonder that I explore the candy-colored streets of Missions and Nobs.
Maybe I am being nostalgic as I sit on the deck that once hosted a gaggle of two-year-olds playing out kingdoms on sand tables. Talking to kids who I knew in diapers who are so radically different from the children I left years ago. It reminds me of girls that are mine. But then again I have these great conversations with Isabella about what it means to follow the threads of destiny. I share my adventures via photographs. I wonder if Jack Kerouac would have sent selfies to those who wondered about him traveling across the country.
Everyone here bemoans the cost of living. What does it cost to live in the city of expectations and disruptions? What is the net positive of all the culture oozing out from parks and playlands? The imagination sparked in holy grounds of literature and second-hand fictions? What does it cost us to not be here with people who understand us? I guess I never answered this question well because my heart has always been served in sourdough bowls and warmed by psychedelic mythology.