As a child I liked to climb the cliffs and contemplate the sea. Soon a source as great and wondrous as the ocean itself would stir within me. Great adventures would unfold in my imagination. I would pick a story, write it down, then put it in a bottle and throw it randomly.
“I’ll write stories when I grow up,” I announced to my mother.
“Yes, you will, dear,” she replied.
An artist and his wife moved into the house next to ours. The artist made his way to the great headlands every morning, dragging his paintbox, easel, and canvas.
“I can go with you?” I begged, my bag already full of paper, bottles, and crayons.
“If you can.”
The artist traveled the world and told colorful stories of walks in Kathmandu, Turkey and Peru.
“I’m going to see the whole world when I grow up.”
“Yes you will.”
The artist painted a Parisian scene, and I loved the elegantly dressed people sitting at small tables, drinking red wine and nibbling at the little dogs curled up in their laps.
“I’m going to have a cafe in Paris when I grow up, mom.”
“Yes, you will, dear.”
This new goal was a good fit for my newly discovered talent for turning water into wine. My father had sent me a pop-up book of Jesus performing some of his most famous miracles. I saw little of my father as he was stationed in India with the RAF. I guess he thought my mother would use the book to tell me the Jesus story. she didn’t. I lay face down on the floor, looking at the scenes, captivated by the magic man. Jesus was on a lever, so that I could move him through miracles. With a push from me, he shot off the cross, the clouds parted, and angels filled the sky. I could also walk with him through water, a feat I tried to emulate. I soon gave up this challenge in favor of the easier task of turning water into wine. I just turned on the tap and asked my mother: “Is it wine yet?”
“Yes, it is, dear.”
I created an imaginary cafe in our back garden. Jesus stopped by regularly for a glass of wine and a chat. She listened as she dreamed of herself in careers as prima ballerina, conductor, and the ever-present writer.
The writer lay buried inside for a long time. I worked in various fields such as advertising, fashion and real estate. I traveled the world, hiking when the opportunity allowed. I loved feeling the ground under my feet and often imagined that I was walking on the same ground as the artist who had inspired my adventures. Traveling taught me many of the things I value most. Traveling is the equivalent of being on a mini-version of the journey of my life. Everything is magnified. Free from routine, time seems to expand. People become more vividly who they are, probably because I’m really looking at them. I realize how different or how similar they are to me. My eyes focus on the details of each new place. I smell the smells, I marvel at the colors of the landscape and the particular waves of a foreign sea. I walk the streets, measuring my pace to the rhythm of local life, my ear attentive to the collective consciousness of the people. I am aware of myself as a member of the human family and my capacity for compassion increases.
Between trips, I returned to Cornwall to visit my mother. The last time I stayed with her, the long journey towards dementia had begun. She one night she ran into my room, she woke me up and said: “There are a lot of people downstairs in the dining room and they are very hungry. Can you come down and help me prepare food for them?”
In a split second our roles were reversed. My mother’s question echoed in the chorus of many she had asked when she was a child. The kindness she had invested in me was as palpable in the air as her breath. I inhaled deeply and took her hand in mine.
“Yes, I will, mom.”