My husband puts up with my constant dreaming, encouraging it in fact. He always tries to make me happy, (for that I am truly blessed), but I am sure he gets tired of it. If I had my way we would become vagabonds traveling in a gypsy caravan, but alas, he is a realist, not to mention that we have teens, needless to say they wouldn't enjoy it.
The sun clouded over, the wind blew against my face disorienting me all the more. This trip did not go at all how I had planned. I wandered for for what I thought was hours, then my name echoed in the distance. A familiar voice calling to me. It was my mom. She appeared over the rise, head tied up in her usual black scarf, yelling my name. I raced to her, landing softly in her warm embrace. She never once scolded me or made fun. She simply took my hand and led me home.
After that day, I took it upon myself to learn my forest, every fallen log plotted and memorized, every tree became a lasting memory until I couldn't get lost if I tried. That is when the forest became my home, and to this day I can recreate it with such clarity that I merely have to close my eyes and I am there.
Writing is the same for me. Wanderlust still calls to me, but now, I merely go inside my mind, traveling to distant lands, experiencing imaginary worlds, getting lost in my own thoughts. I thank God for my parents allowing me to dream, and get lost in the woods.