I kept having people ask me if I hadn't been on any adventures lately, and I just kept saying not really, I'll get around to writing soon. I didn't realize it had really been that long. Maybe that's why I had been feeling so down, so frustrated lately.
See, I have a hard time with the mundane. What to me is mundane anyway. Some people love it. They love to come home, to the same house, at the same time. Some people eat at the same places, because they have their favorites, and want to go to the same hang-outs and grocery stores, and see the same people.
There is NOTHING wrong with that, but I find that for myself, that those routines stifle my creativity. I want to taste different foods, even if I don't like it, it is a story to tell, a memory that makes me laugh. I want to meet different people and remember how diverse of a world we live in.
I want to see rainbows of people, together in one place, and remember the human experience. I want music, and to move my feet and get lost in a rhythm.
It was both the urge, the desire, the drive for adventure, and a need to see the place where Hemingway was born, that drove me to Chicago this weekend.
When I say Hemingway, I always make the mistake of just assuming that everyone knows who he was. So Hemingway was an author, a writer. From everything I've ever read, he was a kindred spirit, who lived, and died, a lifetime before I was born.
His birth and childhood homes, are in Oak Park, Ill, about a 45 minute train ride from downtown Chicago. (I know, because we took the train, and public transportation, thank you to Brittany's stellar navigation skills. )
But, he loved to be near the water, and he suffered bouts of depression, and fought boredom with storytelling. He fought the mundane by living a life of adventure, and writing stories about the human experience. He married, which means he loved, multiple times. The ocean was his friend, along with his cubre libres. I always imagined him to be a very passionate man, who felt often times misunderstood, and sometimes isolated from the people he loved the most. Us writers are a crazy bunch.
The cool thing, is you can visit his birth home, and for $15 a volunteer will give you a tour of the historical Queen Anne home, and regale you with stories of Ernest's childhood, and what influenced his love of writing. (For you architecture buffs, Frank Lloyd Wright is from that area also, and his home is down the street, there just wasn't enough TIME. If you don't know who Frank Lloyd Wright is, look up him, I promise, his homes are worth it).
So maybe, I shed a tear when I walked into the home. Maybe for one moment, I was overwhelmed. The highest compliment I ever got on a paper was when I was told that sometimes, I writing in a Hemningway-esque way, and I always hope I earn those words. (Not today though, this blog is too wordy)
After the tour, we meandered into Chicago, via the train, where we explored "The Bean" in Millennial Park, Navy Pier, The Wit Rooftop bar, Union Station, and while we didn't get to explore the downtown cathedral, we did accidentally stumble into St. Peter's during mass. We were going to go up on the Skydeck, but the three hour wait deterred that.
We explored in that manic way I sometimes get when I'm excited, "I want to see it all, I want to do it all, let's do it all NOW."
I don't know what my rush is. I think it's really just that I want to see it, I want to experience it all. Thank you Brittany for not completely losing patience with me when I'm like that, and for understanding that mania.
See, when the boys were growing up and at home, there was never money, there was never time to go on these road trips. Even if I managed to sneak off, I spent time worried about what they were doing, and I felt guilty. Like, I didn't deserve those moments that my soul needs.
There were family responsibilities that needed to be made priority. I felt like everyone needed me. I never let myself consider what I needed.
It's different now, I turned 40 in March. I'm saying it more often. I turned 40. Sometimes I'm saying it because I'm trying to get it through my own head. There is a disbelief about it. There's a fear of losing my best years, of aging, and not being able to explore. There's a fear that time is running out to make my dreams come true.
There's a fear of living a life of monotony.
My 20s and 30s belonged to my children, and my family, to school, to work. My 40s, those belong to me. This is the decade to make myself happy.
I plan to be writing more. I plan to be editing more over the next couple months. I still have a novel that has some re-writes written. And I'm planning my next adventure.
Here's to dancing to my own rhythm.
