The Pilgrimage: Chapter One

Welcome to Jolly Old England. A little over two weeks ago I decided to come here, to my parents’ beginnings, the place I could have been born but wasn’t because my father lusted for post-war adventure and an opportunity to improve his life and my mother’s and brother’s standard of living. 

Boy oh boy did he. All three of us kids—now old people ourselves—graduated from college, held professional careers, owned homes, raised kids, lived honorable lives and now have the good fortune to have been able to live long enough to look back, reflect, and be abundantly grateful for the world our parents bequeathed us. 

Which brings me to Great Britain, the nation of my DNA (so says my 23 and Me Ancestry findings which determined I’m 99.3% British). I am here in Mom and Dad’s homeland to discover, feel, and put the what-does-it-all-mean? puzzle pieces together during the earthquake-aligning month of my 70^th year on Planet Earth. 

To be alive this long is a privilege my mother, aunties, and other female members of my family never experienced. In a sense, I am also here for them, maybe even my adult children, grandchildren, and nieces, so that I can better understand the whole and broken pieces, how they fit together, and what can still be salvaged that will enhance the next chapter called Old Age. 

The Who Am I question continues to intrigue me as I open and close doors, become limber and arthritis stiff, and seek answers I don’t even know I need to know. My hunch is that I will unlock a fragmentation, a jarring of what might have been, unleashing a cheeky, jubilant state of freedom that will fuel the road ahead.  

Something has been stuck. I can’t put my finger on it, but way back when I got off track, my little girlness vanished and I became serious and responsible. I lost my way. MY way. My giggles, my impulsivity, my dancing in the street for no particular reason other than joy, for some reason dissipated in the mist of the day-to-day. But now I’m in the mood to reclaim it. 

Being here is proof. 

How did this spontaneous-for-me trip come to be, you might wonder? Being in Britain, being back on my family’s home turf, was a back-of-my-mind bucket list dream. I’ve been postponing the journey for more than a decade, making excuses, “One day, I’ll go back,” I promised myself. When a property I was looking to invest in fell through, I decided it was a sign: Do it! What’s holding you back? 

Fear. 

Money.

Traveling internationally by myself. 

Getting lost.

Making a mistake.

But there’s something about Damn, I am officially Joe Biden old that pushed me out of my comfort zone. 

So with a pressing sense of time-is-ticking urgency, I texted my London-based cousin to see if she was busy during May and as fate would have it, her calendar was wide open; she welcomed me to stay with her and her three beloved felines. Amazing! Cassandra further revealed that the timing was perfect as she was months away from relocating from her London cottage to her deceased parents’ home near Warrington. Not only that, she said, she wanted a mate to be a London tourist with before moving north.

It’s all working out. The flight from New York to Heathrow was great; I got a whole row to myself; my back didn’t hurt thanks to a back zapper device I Amazoned before the flight. Triumph No. 1. Victory 2: I figured out—by myself—how to get from the airport to the hotel where I had a restful first night’s sleep. These accomplishments might not seem like a big deal to the well-traveled, but to me such solo successes are confidence-builders prompting the possibility of future international travels.

Later today, Cassandra and I will go touristing in London, but honestly that’s not why I’m here; I’m here to reconnect, to feel, to sing, to be proud of my family, my life and all the zigs and zags that brought me to this moment. I’m here as a seeker, absorber, giddy to discover what turning 70 in the land of my heritage uncovers.

Stay tuned.