Here I come penguins, iguanas, birds of paradise.

I may be the fool.

I imagine the Tarot’s fool card – a sort of grungy innocent with only a beggar’s bag on a stick, feet bare, dog pulling on his trousers to stop him from going, a crocodile waiting in the wings. The fool’s foot is poised over the edge of a cliff, about ready to step off into the unknown, knowing nothing, but curious enough to take the risk. I may be that fool but with three bags and a carry on. A little leisure comforts risk taking.

The edge of the cliff, the edge of life, awaits and I step off the platform (did that when I tried the trapeze last summer and paragliding in Jackson Hole) completely trusting God to put me where he wants me to be, to allow me to soar with the eagles, and to see what I need to see after all I’ve seen in 68 years of life. Hopefully I can share the joy of discovery with my grandchildren and friends through this blog.

Adventure is all about faith and believing in the order of an universe far beyond the fingers and prayers of man. I wallow in the hands of God and keep my heart malleable so his print can use it as He wishes. In my work with juvenile delinquents and abused children, I see so much tragedy and evil. There is a love drought. Sometimes the real scene can warp souls of helpers. So I take periodic expeditions because there are mysteries, secrets, lifestyles, prostrations of the soul, adventures in other parts of the world more extraordinary than what we are necessarily confined to here in this country. Maybe there are even answers.

It’s also all about poetry found in the waddle of a penguin, the splash of the whale, the crack of the ice berg, the blue beaks of blue-footed boobies of Galapagos, the giant Moai mysteries on Easter Islands, the rare orchids and fruits of the rain forest coated in clouds, the glory of standing in a salon of 150 different hummingbirds to feel their flutter and to learn names of rare plants I’ll never see again.

These things stir up my imagination before I step onto an airplane and I wonder how much closer will I come to the end? How much bravery will ease up from the calves of my legs? How much heart is left to share chatter and hope with new actors in life? How far can I stretch without falling on my rear? How much will God allow?

I won’t send postcards with “It’s grand. Wish you were here.” You suppose that before I begin. The only post card I’d really like to receive is one I’ll never see – the postcard from someone who has crossed the bridge from life to death, and who inscribes behind a snapshot of an Edenic green field where clear rivers flow through angels’ skirts, “It’s grand, Wish you were here.” Then we would know the answers to all the questions and whether life is worth it or not. It’s all so unknown, the secrets of our dust.