The Sharp Left Turn

Last night I had a dream. It was about my high school reunion. Something I never attended, so I’m not sure why I dreamt about it. To me, reunions like that are about some form of measurement. Everyone there is trying to stand up straight and hold in their stomach. Hoping to stack up against others who might have been voted Most Likely to Succeed, or Least Likely. eek! I want no part of that. The first reunion invitation I received was for my five-year reunion. Even at that young age I was not naive enough to believe that five years was enough time to achieve anything of import. And my personal plans were more of a long game. There was no way I was going to that reunion because I knew that the conventional place where I grew up would judge me harshly. My family already thought I was strange. And high schoolers – even five years on – weren’t going to come up with a kinder assessment. Never mind. Robert Frost’s Biggest Fan From an early age, I could clearly see that going in the same direction as the crowd meant you would never do anything interesting. Just exactly what they were all doing. And it was boring. In high school, I cut my own hair, pierced my own ears, and generally invented my own unusual – ok, sometimes embarrassing the my family -fashion sense, which I have now unleashed on the small pueblo of Melide in Galicia. I can’t say they love it. Or even understand it. But that is because they don’t understand where I came from. The 1980’s in suburban America. You’re welcome, Melidites! Growing up, I always felt like I didn’t belong. Even in my own house. But in a good way. I knew I would leave and never look back. And in school it was no different. I knew these were not my people. We would not be friends after graduation. We would not push our children down the sidewalk together in matching strollers. I knew this because I would be living on the other side of the world. Maybe not right away, but it would happen. Because the thought of staying within 200 miles of where I grew up was soul crushing. I had things to do and none of them could be done locally. I remember my high school English literature teacher assigned me Robert Frost’s famous poem The Road Not Taken. At a fork in the road he looks at the well-worn path, then at the other one covered in long grass. The one few have tread. And he chooses. Two roads diverged in a wood, and I— I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference. It was a revelation to a teenager looking for validation. Choosing to take a path others never consider is, in fact, the right path. It was as if this poet was telling me, it was OK. I was OK. Not strange. Not crazy. I was like him, and I could choose. I had this poem engraved on a brass compass and I gave it to my son, Nick, as a gift. I am not sure if he appreciated what those words meant to me or what I was trying to convey to him. But this poem changed my life and my perspective. I wanted him to know that we can all choose. Intuition Today, on the farm we had the production team of an Australian movie that is filming on the Camino. An exciting project. I can’t tell you how wonderful it was to have them here. I love being around people who dream big, then execute. I don’t like the talking part. I like the doing. And these folks are doing it. But, more than that they are extraordinary people. I felt as if I knew them instantly, and their director and I quickly entered into a deep conversation about what the Camino means, the energy and the subtext. The pillars of life. It was intense. It was after they left it hit me. Not once did they ask Jeff or myself why we moved here or why we were doing what we are doing. They didn’t have to because they already intuitively knew. ‘You live on a river of energy you plug into.’ Bill, the director, told me matter-of-factly. Not a question. A statement. As if this couldn’t be clearer. Remarkable. And I’m not sure any of them understood just how extraordinary this is for me. I am a fan of the sharp left turn. If everyone is going right, I am going in the opposite direction. Doing things that people will often tell me I can’t do, or I’m crazy to do. Leave a job. Take a different one. Move house. Move across the world. Start a business. I’ve heard ‘You’re doing what?!’ or from friends ‘People ask me – What’s Kelli doing?!’ too many times to count. But I pay them no mind. You can’t explain yourself and what you’re doing if other people can’t see it. And, frankly, the older I get, I’m not interested in trying. But to be around those who don’t even ask, because they don’t have to, is remarkable. I knew the moment I met Jeff that he was the same as me. His sister-in-law once told me ‘You guys are always doing something unusual.’ I’m not sure it was a compliment – but I decided to take it as one. And my Mom was shocked I married introverted Jeff. ‘He’s a nerd.’ But what she didn’t understand was that quiet and well considered doesn’t equal boring or unadventurous. It just means he make moves that no one sees right away. Until they turn around and he’s already done what other people, mainly extroverts, are still just talking about. As I said, I prefer doing to talking. I’m sure there are more sharp left turns in our future. The unexpected, but not unplanned. We’ll strap on our boots, once again, at the fork in the road, taking the one into the tall grass. But I prefer that. It’s quieter there. A place to think and dream as we progress. On a destination to where fewer travel. And along the way we’ll meet our people. Those who have chosen the same overgrown road. No explanations required. And that will make all the difference.