As an adult, those days came. I owned a home, tended my yard, swept, cleaned, took care of my husband and children. I would lie down at night so tired and wondered, "Is this really what I wanted?"
My ancestors were nomads, travelers; but not by choice. They had once been farmers and occupied their ancestral lands for hundreds of years. My Great Grandmother Minnie Burke Rogers was a member of the great Choctaw nation. The Choctaw signed nine treaties with the United States Government, the first being The Treaty of Hopewell in 1786. In 1830, the United States seized the last of the Choctaw’s ancestral territory and relocated the tribe to Indian Territory west of the Mississippi. The Choctaw were the first to walk the Trail of Tears. Nearly 2,500 members perished along the way.
My husband is a nomad, a bohemian too. He understands the longing in my heart to keep moving. Perhaps we are wanderers. . . still looking for a great place that no longer exists.
1. a person, as an artist or writer, who lives and acts free of regard for conventional rules and practices.
2. living a wandering or vagabond life, as a Gypsy.
The less I own, the less I am owned by my property. I want less, not more. While this seems unconventional in this society of consumerism, I am comfortable with the thought. I'm more comfortable in my skin than I ever have been. You can keep your BMW's, your boats, your giant furniture and enormous homes. You don't own those things, although you can't see it. Those things own you. Be a slave to your paycheck, your payments, your bank account. I would rather go hungry than to spend my life working for "things". I long for freedom.
On my Yamaha V*Star Tatonka I am alive and free. I'm ready to roam again. On Monday we will pack a few items, load up my motorcycle, and drink in the lined concrete and become a blur in the broken landscape. I'm going back home, if only for awhile. Back to the road.