The rolling slopes and farm fields of rural Rock County, Wisconsin.

I haven’t written much since Sunday. I have been very busy packing up my house and saying goodbye. After Tuesday I will have a chance to get caught up and then I can post something daily again.

Lately I have found myself devouring many common, everyday sights and sounds near me; many of the things I have taken for granted over the years. I consume even the most mundane task, whether it is going to the store or picking up the mail. I find myself looking around more and listening better. Looking around was always a strong suit; listening not so much.

My new habits are a byproduct of the realization that it may be the last time I visit some (or all) of these places, see these people, and do these things. I’m sure I will have an abundance of new sights and sounds, but I grow a bit melancholy thinking about what I’m leaving behind.

The urge to explore, it seems, is in my genes. One grandfather and boat full of great grandfathers and grandmothers once left their home on a voyage westward, too. They ditched their homeland without any knowledge of what waited for them on the other side of the ocean. And each of them did so with a hope that the life waiting for them over the horizon was better than the one they left behind. In each case their hunch was right.

My grandfather was the only one of the pioneers in my family I personally knew. And although he was very proud of his new home and wouldn’t trade his life for anything back home, he still missed his place of birth.

I fear the doors I am about to knock upon may be closed. Rather than a solution, I concede my journey may end in defeat. But like my relatives before me, I am comfortable with my fate, despite what I may leave behind.

A vestige of my grandfather’s pioneering spirit now guides me. I think of him often as I prepare for this move.