Adventure

Adventure

When we are children, we dream of adventure,

like climbing Mount Everest or sailing alone

around the globe or living in the wilderness,

foraging and hunting for our very survival,

or, perhaps, someday learning to fly.

 

Often, along the way, our dreams are modified;

In my case, Mt. Everest became the High Peaks

of New York, the oceans of the world were

reduced to the Finger Lakes and living off the land

turned into an irregularly kept vegetable garden.

And I have never learned to fly.

 

But here’s what I have done: survived seven

years in the sterile suburbs of New York City amid

endless shopping centers and the numbing drudgery

of a long daily commute, but then picked up

my family and moved 250 miles away to a small

town where we started over from scratch;

 

where we raised our children, built a life,

and did everything from keeping chickens and

goats to serving in the state capitol to

meeting our grandchildren and loosing

some loved ones, and then, like a broken field runner,

changing directions and heading east to Gloucester.

 

Gloucester, where I awake to such scenes, scents and

sounds and I feel as though I am in a painting

by Van Gogh when his eyes and mind were

seared by the light at Arles; where the people who were

born here are still thankful for this place and

where each day is an adventure that beats my early dreams.

 

Marty Luster