Last May I was in France. Even as I write the words, I am incredulous. International travel is not part of my self-image. But having two daughters who expanded their horizons to include Europe, resulted in a strong pull. 

 

This spring life is more provincial, with jaunts to local events where I speak the language. I am content with staying close to home, mind you. Under my roof there is enough fabric to keep me busy, and my town includes friends aplenty for connections. The collection of responsibilities I respond to keep me in a tight radius. 

 

I am curious about what life might be like a year in the future, or five. There seem to be barriers to such predictions. It reminds me of the difference between stop lights when I was a passenger, compared to now that I am the driver. When I gazed out the window as a dreamy eight-year-old, there were fields and houses to inspect. I imagined flying horses swooping along beside us. In an intersection, the yellow lights facing opposing traffic predicted imminent red. Sometimes I would announce this to my dad, who was the chauffeur. 

 

But civil engineers have concocted blinders like those on a horse's reins in the last century, to keep her from spooking over movement around her. They make it difficult to see the color shift before it happens. 

 

I reluctantly admit that things go better when I cannot see with certainty what lies ahead. There were heartbreaks that forced me to stop where I was headed, and look for direction. Knowing about them a hundred miles before I arrived at those intersections might have paralyzed me.