The time has come

Written in 2016 as I was preparing to move to Yap.

The time has come to leave NYC. Rental prices are through the roof and buying is out of the question. And, at 69, I’ve aged out of the work market. It matters none that many companies and nonprofits would benefit from my knowledge, experience and still well-honed skills; few will consider me a viable candidate despite their responses to my resume as “excellent” and “impressive” when I submit it in response to their ads. Will this change as we live longer and remain mentally active and physically strong into our seventh, eighth and even ninth decades? Only time will tell…which seems ironic, doesn’t it.

As I tell friends about my plans to travel with few set plans to places as far-flung as India, Belize, Spain and Morocco, many express their own yearning to explore the world. “I wish I could do that,” they say when I describe my open-ended journey. I feel fortunate that I have no one who relies on me for anything, I tell them, and have pared down my possessions to such a degree that few are worth keeping and even fewer have any emotional attachment.  Some are, though.

I look at the cup made of cow horn that holds pens and pencils on my desk. Purchased during my last trip to Africa at a small shed housing crafts made by residents of villages surrounding the elephant reserve in Kwa-Zulu Natal, it reminds me of the elephant herd that I witnessed from a hide high above their watering hole. Led by the matriarch, her head held high, ears flapping in the heat, they emerged from the dense forest silently in single-file and surrounded the muddy hole, the sentries facing outward while the babies excitedly ran into the water, splashing and playing, their trunks and legs a-tumble. After nearly an hour, just as silently as they had arrived, they slowly formed again into a single line, each one taking its place as one of the sentries followed at the end, watchfully turning this way and that to insure that no predators were following. Within a few minutes, the herd of massive grey bodies disappeared back into the forest.  

Intertwined in that priceless memory is finding the cow-horn cup in the shop at the entrance to the reserve. I seldom buy things on my travels, preferring to acquire and share stories and images. However, this small cup will remain in my possession for many years to come. Other things, the “stuff” that I’ve accumulated over the years, will not. In the next month I’ll open boxes and sort through them, continuing to pare down. Furniture will be sold or donated to the local charity shop. When and if I ever need such things again, I’ll acquire them. In the meantime, a few boxes containing documents, photos of my travels, and the cow-horn cup will be stored in a friend’s garage for my eventual return.