It’s been almost a year since I wrote about the death of my father and the complex emotions I experienced as a result of being in South America when he passed.
This time, it is aging (I celebrated my 54th birthday this month) in an ancient city in Portugal that inspired me to share my thoughts about politics, travel, and hope.
It’s a compelling question: If I only had a few weeks to live, where would I go?
Would I drop everything and head off on a thrilling round-the-world Bucket List adventure?
Would I would stay right where I am, in a temporary house in Mexico?
Would I return ‘home” to the landscape of my childhood?
Many years ago my husband, Hank, bought me a T-shirt that read “I used to be schizophrenic, but we’re just fine now.”
We joke about the crazy woman he married. The unconventional wife who reinvents herself every decade or so and still doesn’t know who she wants to be when she grows up. And, as the shirt suggests, there’s more than one of me in this marriage.