I’ve had a few adventures. It would be easy to rest on my laurels, smoke my pipe, put my feet up in my hobbit hole and reflect upon them. Maybe write a very long book for future generations to ignore. 

But as it turns out, laurels are uncomfortable.

And as the summer turns begrudgingly into fall, I hear a small voice in the back of my mind, calling. I feel the need to wander. I crave a little discomfort. I am tired of telling tales. They have begun to feel like excuses.

Memories are not made to dwell in but to build on. What good are the mistakes of the past if not as lessons? And what good are lessons if you are not willing to apply them? If hard-earned experiences are not to put to good use, you may as well have stayed home by the fire in the first place.

It is time to stand. To pick up my walking stick and feel the worn twists of the grain in my hand, Time to pick up my pack, stretch my legs and open my door. It’s time to set my foot on the path that leads away and ahead and let the adventure begin.

Who knows where it might lead?

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