My wandering urges are whelming again. Big surprise, huh? A pivotal question in my 40+ years of therapy is whether I am wandering to something or from something. Well. . . As a hyper-active teen, I was at a flat out run. I didn't run in a mode calm enough to accomplish wandering. I didn't have a variable speed then. "On" and "Off" were the only settings on my energy switch. In my calmest mode, I could outrun just about anything on the planet, through hook or crook. I had plenty to run from. . . The compassionate folk of the world were holding gates open for me while the wicked were looking for ways to harness that energy for their personal power grids. My Queen of Mosey Crown was hard earned. Learning to slow down was no small feat for me. Menopause gave me a whole new set of tools to work with. Variable speed motors!!! What a concept!!!

I was in my first semester in college ('76) when the question first arose, "Are you running to something or from something?" After I finished my Army tour, I allowed my birth family to talk me into enrolling in a college in the area they had moved to while I was in Europe. By their logics, if I was rich enough to pay college tuition, I was rich enough to be their lottery ticket, etc., etc. I managed decent grades in that first semester, but I could not see finishing a degree plan with that kind of support. The answer to the initial question was, ". . .running from, but sometimes running from is the best possible option." This would be where the therapy talk shifted to what was being called, "A Therapy Funeral" in 70's pop psychology.

All these decades and changes later, I still work through the initial question, "Am I wandering from something or to something?" whenever my wandering urges hit. In the recent wanders --been day wandering aimlessly most every day lately-- the initial answer is also the same. "I am wandering from something, but sometimes wandering away is the best solution." What I am wandering from is still family. I have dropped the "Therapy Funeral" notion. I am quite sure I want to keep them, warts and all, but I still squirm like a shark on a hook at the thought of playing the traditional family roles. Well. . . I am loving the "Grandma" role when the parental units are not around. So is the grampy of my grams, but. . . the dynamics sure change when the parental units (youngest son and his wife) are at home. Don't wanna be "The Monster-in-Law." Don't wanna be the "Old Wife." Don't wanna be the good "DIL." Not that I make much sense to the family members when I try to speak my "don't wannas." They just want me to fill the expectations which brought them to me this time and get back to my box. Keeping projects on track here at the homestead in between fulfilling their expectations is. . . Not going well. . .

I am not sure if I am sorting or venting. Both, I reckon. . . Blowing off the chaff is always my first step in sorting.

The feet sure are itching. . .