My long-time friend called yesterday. We are motherless, sisterless, daughterless women. So when she said. Summer. Her birthday. Chicago. I agreed instantly. To come. I understand. Birthdays (and Mother’s Day) in a motherless, sisterless, daughterless world. Motherless. In this I am vulnerable.
Kenya Air flight 431. Crashed leaving Douala. In a mountainous, heavily forested area. In a mangrove swamp. People from two dozen countries. Were aboard. Along with a sense of adventure comes risk. I fly Kenya Air frequently when in Africa. Because I consider it safe. And I flew out of Douala not so long ago, where the flights are often late, glad that we were finally leaving. And I can only imagine that these passengers thought the same on this stormy night. I have always thought that if I die while traveling, I will have been doing something exciting that I loved. Travel. In this I am vulnerable.
Half a thyroid. Is all I have left. I’ve been tired lately. A few weeks ago in the middle of a hike, I climbed onto the top of a picnic table. And fell asleep for more than an hour. I’m not on thyroid meds. And I need to see a doctor. Health. In this I am vulnerable.
I have been restless. Not traveling. And envious. Of a woman who is. Having adventures in Turkey and Georgia and Israel. In my strange life. I am leaving for a week in Belgium on Friday. For meetings. On the coast. In a town that guidebooks describe as the town not to go to if you’re vacationing on the coast. And I realize that any travel to Europe or Boston or San Francisco has fallen into the not-really-travel category. Excitement. In this I am vulnerable.