Andrea Patten

Those who did not grow up in the northeast might think that we native New Englanders eventually develop sort of a blasé attitude about the change of seasons. Personally, that could not be further from the truth: for as far back as I can remember the process has inspired awe.

When we lived on a dirt road in rural New Hampshire, there were lots of walks. I walked alone, with my husband, and with my dogs with their blaze orange tags. Despite the fact that we were too close for hunting, we all had our orange blaze. To the uninitiated, we may have looked like part of the changing landscape but it was a form of communication that made us all comfortable in our wandering. At the risk of sounding like a bumper sticker, not all who wander are lost. Our wandering rarely had a destination, it was all about the journey.

Our wandering rarely had a destination, it was always about the journey. Click To Tweet

As someone who has always loved photography, one would think I’d have — at the very least — hundreds of pictures of New England fall foliage. I don’t. I’ve tried, but quite honestly? They’re never good enough. I’m a decent photographer but those shots don’t even come close to capturing the surrounding beauty. I think it feels like living in a painting.

New Englanders are known for a certain hard-headed independence, captured in another masterpiece — one that is part of our psychic DNA. I don’t know if it’s as powerful in other parts of the country but for some of us, it’s a core experience.

This masterpiece is part of our psychic DNA. Click To Tweet

 

 

The Road Less Traveled

by Robert Frost

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,

And sorry I could not travel both

And be one traveler, long I stood

And looked down one as far as I could

To where it bent in the undergrowth;

 

Then took the other, as just as fair,

And having perhaps the better claim,

Because it was grassy and wanted wear;

Though as for that the passing there

Had worn them really about the same,

 

And both that morning equally lay

In leaves no step had trodden black.

Oh, I kept the first for another day!

Yet knowing how way leads on to way,

I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.

I think that the last stanza can be an anthem for entrepreneurs and creatives everywhere. My sisters. (And the occasional brother.) And, as I sit and write this, my heart tells me that, wherever you are, you are imbued with at least a little bit of that independent Yankee hard-headedness.

 

Do you have at least a little bit of that independent Yankee hard-headedness? Click To Tweet

 

It was my turn to drive and Highway 101 was a relatively peaceful place. I have only been to California a handful of times and outside of the cities once before. The foreign landscape was bliss. The traffic was barely worth mentioning. With my husband asleep in the passenger sleep and occasional friendly comments from my 19-year-old bonus son floating toward the driver’s seat, I will also say that I was in road trip bliss. We were headed toward San Francisco and had most of the day to get there.

Suddenly, there it was. A very small sign with the words National Steinbeck Center. As trite as it sounds, my heart skipped a beat or three. We were going. Fortunately, both my husband and the boy in the back enjoy spontaneity: once fully awake and conscious, both were all in.

Besides just loving them like crazy, there are many advantages to spending time with the almost-adult set.

Once awake and fully conscious, both were all in. Click To Tweet

Just about the time I started to wonder if I’d made a bad turn, he called out, “That’s it. It looks like the picture I found on the internet.”

Wandering toward the entrance, we couldn’t move quickly. I was overwhelmed before we got there. I mean, seriously, where else would you find a mural about Steinbeck’s work in an alley on a parking garage wall?

I have my own style of visiting museums and it rarely includes the obligatory foundation-funded film the staff and volunteers would like you to see. Instead of my usual wiggling like a 5-year-old, I was spellbound. John Steinbeck was one of my childhood heroes. I started reading him when I was about middle school aged and couldn’t get enough. Wandering through the museum, I discovered that I’d read about half of his work.

I don’t know if it’s true for others, but I found this museum visit an extremely intimate experience. Maybe it’s because the rest of the family wandered off and left me alone — or because of all the telepathic communication I was having with my imaginary mentor. Whatever it was, I was moved almost to tears many, many times.

 

How long's it gonna be till we get that little place an' live off the fatta the lan'? Click To Tweet

I did not realize what an influence John Steinbeck and his characters have been. I’m drawn to character-driven work. I admire the way they come alive on Steinbeck’s pages.  Not only do I not care too much about plot, when it comes to writing fiction, I’m having a bear of a time learning how to develop one! And, despite relatively recent reports stating that it is fiction, I cannot re-read Travels With Charlie one more time or my honey is likely to wake up minus one dog and one wife for an extended period. I can’t help myself. It’s a seed that was planted many years ago. And while it has yet to fully blossom, it is certainly is well-rooted.

The trip to a place that I didn’t know I wanted to go simply reinforced that dream. It’s a dream that’s more about intuition than any particular destination or mode of travel. It’s about quiet adventure. And what better re-charge is there than to follow your nose to visit your bliss:  history, dreams, and storytelling.

 

It's a dream that's more about intuition and quiet adventure. Bliss. Click To Tweet

 

 

 

 

 

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