Artist’s need to wander might be inherent

Someone called it playing hopscotch. My Clovis editor asked if it were a mission to live in every state in the nation. I call it getting out of the rain. And with the rainfall the Oregon coast gets — which lasts through April and has already flooded nearly every river in the state — it’s going to take a little more than a gazebo.

It’s going to take Arizona, where I’ll be moving at the end of the month. Yes, I know I merely arrived. Yes, I know the folks in the community are beautiful, the job is excellent, my coworkers and boss are the best.

I’ll even listen to the naysayers who tell me how I’m going to implode from the heat or need a wet rag just to open the car door or get lost in the desert and eaten by rattlesnakes. I’ll giggle along with those who say my face will instantly become a leather tennis ball with a high-pitched voice and my hair will break off like brittle scarecrow

stuffing.

The same thing happened when I moved from New Mexico to the Pacific Northwest and folks told me how I wouldn’t be able to stand the colder temperatures or how everyone’s weird on the West Coast.

Then again, since I was fresh out of New York City, they also told me how everyone’s weird on the East Coast. When I was leaving New York City for the Land of Enchantment — guess what? — it was the same phenomenon.

Someone warned I’d be trampled by wild horses, another said I’d never be accepted in a small town with “that hairdo” and a third just laughed, saying I’d die without my daily dose of gourmet coffee.

My mom fretted I’d marry a New Mexico mountain man and even sent along a wedding gift — a spoon holder in the shape of a cowboy boot.

None of those things happened — although it was tough without the gourmet coffee — but other things happened instead.

I learned so many valuable lessons that could not have been learned any other way.

I learned to slow down. I learned to open up in ways I never thought possible. I even had people enter my house, something that rarely‚ if ever, happened in Brooklyn.

I got to own pet goats and have a yard swing. I saw seals bob soulfully in the Pacific surf. I even hugged a redwood.

A fellow artist said the need to ramble is an artistic thing. We have to spread our wings, experience every crevice of life.

My mom calls it insanity and wants the spoon holder back.

Another theory came from Aunt Iris, years before I even considered leaving New York. She likened me to a fairy that must flit about the Earth spreading fairy dust — be it poetry, laughter or hope.

I really like that image. Especially if I get wings and those really cool fairy shoes. And especially if it gets me out of the rain.