After the Dream

Aroused by the dream, I slipped on some clothes and stepped out into the brisk night. It was 4:30 AM and the stars twinkled brightly. A waning moon shone down softly from a sky void of any cover with which to hold in remains of the previous day’s heat. A slight and gentle breeze prickled and awakened my flesh.

I looked to where my tent would have been pitched in the side yard had it been 15 years earlier, where I would be sleeping was I again the stranger encamped in a stranger’s yard. Memories returned of countless such nights, bringing an all-too-familiar longing that has been my daily companion since that journey.

And comfort came with it, too. The comfort of knowing that I was home. The sweet familiarity of this place: its running water—hot and cold, the books and music at my disposal, its protective shelter where, whenever I choose, I can pour a hot cup of tea and settle into a chair to enjoy the passing time.

I shivered. I had to use the bathroom and it felt good to not have to do battle with myself from inside a warm sleeping bag: Do I get up now, dig around for clothes, unzip the tent and go find a private tree where I can squat while freezing in the night? Or can I hold out until the sun is up and the air is slightly warmer?

Instead, I went back inside. I relieved myself, appreciating again the wonder of modern convenience. Then I stripped and slipped under the warm covers of my bed.

My bed.

Near the end of my walking odyssey, I had had a realization that the real and more difficult challenge--certainly harder than walking across the country--was to experience daily life as an adventure. That the ordinary is unknown.

I smiled to myself, not knowing what the next day held.

And I gently and easily drifted back to sleep.