“Not all who wander are lost.” – J.R.R. TOLKIEN
I am an explorer. I have lived in many places. I stand ready for what is to come.
My grandmother came to this country at the end of the second world war, and she brought nothing with her aside from the clothes on her back and her precious Matryoshka dolls. Life was not easy for her when she first arrived, and money was always in short supply. No one wanted to hire someone who had never held a higher position than a window cleaner and who could barely speak English. The thing I found fascinating is that she could have easily sold those nesting dolls for a very pretty penny. She could have given herself a solid ground on which to stand. At least enough to get her footing while she learned the language. It could have saved her—from the degrading work she was forced into, from starvation. She never did.
We Were Brothers
In the traditional sense, we were not kin. But I was never one for tradition. The World Forest, as we called it, stretched on for as far as any of my kind had ever flown. We found no end to it. Perhaps it enveloped the world. We knew not. Men knew it not either, and if they did, they gave no indication. They did not cherish it like we did. Their wanton cutting of the trees was tragic, yet understandable in a way. Unlike us, they were confined to the dirt and mossy earth and the waters, never being able to climb higher than their ladders would allow. All creatures wish to soar higher. Humans were no exception.