Fourteen years ago, I walked onto the airplane that brought me to England. I had sold my home, quit my jobs, and hugged my children goodbye. In my imagination, I was walking into a tunnel where I would round a bend before coming out on the other end. I had no idea who I would be or how my life would look when I walked off that plane the next morning. In my bag were my brand new hiking boots; I was as ready as I could be.
We’ve been all over the world together, my boots and me.
They died on Colonsay last week, unwilling to walk another mile. Shall I admit I carried them all the way home to England? Admit that I’ve pulled out the laces, but can’t bring myself to throw them away?
I’m grateful for the places we’ve gone, delighted with my English life… thanks for walking me into the world, old friends.