I write this twenty-one days before we depart. Twenty-One is the number of the Fool in Tarot [or Zero-into the void]. Twenty One, symbol of the person centered on the object and either on himself.
Twenty one days until I answer the siren call of the West.
Growing up I was obsessed with Laura Ingalls Wilder. I mean OBSESSED. I read and re read those books until they were broken and tattered, smeared with dirty fingerprints. I used to climb up into the Magnolia tree in my Grandparents back yard and read among the birds and leaves, wishing I could be Laura.
The boy and I like modern day pioneers, loading our wagon with precious few possessions for the long journey out west, trailing through the areas of our ancestors. We are deliberately taking the route North then West so I may release the dirt from my Grandfathers grave to mingle with the dirt of his Fathers grave on the Iron Range.
Joe is also taking some of his Father with us since he always wanted to live out West, but left this earth before he had the chance. The plan is to walk the mountains with his ashes until a spot calls out and we respond with a prayer, blessing, and releasing.
I find the older that I get, the more I become the keeper of my family. I keep the traditions, the stories, the superstitions and the prayers. I find that I identify more with the old spirits and the old ways. I feel that this move is the culmination of the lessons wrought by home, time, and family mingling with the void of releasing.
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