When I was in the initial planning stages of my vacation to Florida, I wondered why the idea had jumped into my head in the first place. I mean really! A vacation? Alone? On an airplane, with layovers and transfers? What was I thinking? Why did I want to do such an outlandish thing?
I’m turning sixty, I told myself. That deserves a celebration.
That’s what I told everybody else too.
But deep down, there was more to it than that. Something about this trip felt profoundly significant. Life-altering. I didn’t pretend to have a clue what it might have been, but the feeling just wouldn’t let go. I got to the point where I was so curious I couldn’t not go to Florida. I had to find out what this mystery “something” was. So I just let the idea soak in, invited it to make itself at home, brewed it a relaxing cup of tea.
And life went on pretty much as usual. I set the alarm clock and went to work. I came home and read, did cross-stitch, played on Facebook. I shopped and went to therapy appointments (yes, I’m in therapy. More on that later). I browsed YouTube videos about getting through airport security and packing my suitcase.
All the while I wondered. What could it be? Why was I really going to Florida? Though I begged, the Powers That Be weren’t dropping any hints. At the same time, I knew…
