There is this idea that in order for something to be an adventure, there has to be a rush. There has to be a flurry of activity, a hint of danger. Only the wild wind counts -gentle breezes are for wimps. There are some people, too, who think of love the same way -as a tasmanian devil of emotions and everything magnified -sound, colour, ego. I beg to differ. The more I learn about love, the more it seems the very opposite of crashing drums. And as for adventure -I have spent the past two weeks decidedly not in any danger, and felt more alive than on any icy ski traverse I’ve shuffled across.
My first destination, Muskoka, land of rolling hills, quiet lakes and the Canadian Shield -our geological Old World, doesn’t have the same rockstar vibe that the coast mountains here in BC enjoy. But walking through fire-red and orange forest and watching sunsets of the same colour light up the lake, letting contentment seep into me and Gramma take care of me, even as I tried to take care of her, and remembering (so many memories live at the cottage) surely was an adventure.
In Toronto, I was taken outside of myself by musician friends at two different shows, and by some amazing tacos shared with a good friend. I relived my childhood at the pumpkin patch with my cousins in Whitby, was reminded of both the frailty of the human body and guts and strength of our spirits on a weekend trip to London to see old friends who have traveled some rocky paths.
Yesterday, I laughed harder than I have since I can remember. So hard I couldn’t swallow my water. If I had been drinking milk, it would probably have come out of my nose.
And here’s the real adventure: I was dancing to the second song of the set as my friend’s band surrounded us with music, and I realized that I was happy. Not even-tempered, not not-unhappy. But genuinely, life-affirmingly happy. Happy that wasn’t accompanied by a manic grasping into the future.
And the weird thing was that happy felt a lot like love. The real adventure