Travel is a language that SHLB and I speak. We share the same fluency level and accent. My theory is that this stems from each of us spending large amounts of time playing by ourselves as children. He, in Gartocharn, Scotland, with his toy boat and dog, Bess. Me, in Carthage, North Carolina, with my wagon and dog, Toby. It doesn’t have to be fancy, but we like to wring the offerings out of a vacation experience.

When we were in Costa Rica, we read about discovering amphibians of the region in a nighttime expedition. I mean, imagine the lines forming for this adventure. The experience translated to a sketchy 10:00 pm pick up outside of our resort by a person in a van who insisted on being paid in cash. Let’s just say that we had our choice of seating in the vehicle.

We walked around a cave exhibit with flashlights. It may or may not have passed through my mind that I was glad my last will and testament was updated. The frogs were cool, though. Some of them had the teensiest of feet.

Last weekend, we headed to the hills to celebrate SHLB’s birthday. He had been saying that once in a while, it’s good to get some mountain on you, and southwest Virginia did not disappoint. March doesn’t get the credit it deserves, forever cast with the cliché of “in like a lion, out like a lamb.” It’s a beautiful time to me, ripe with buds and hatchlings, erupting with light and hope. March nods with approval and encouragement that having made it through winter, spring is around the bend.

SHLB and I hiked and biked. We shot skeet. We yogaed. We ate and drank. There were two beds in the room, and we tried both, sleeping with a Goldilocks kind of reckless abandon.

Harmonicas and a guitar ride shotgun on most of our trips and we drank wine, while SHLB played and sang. I chimed in now and then as a nice Cab Sauv improves my tone recognition and pitch imperfection. We laughed a lot.

We listened to a blue grass band and SHLB tipped them with a request for “Fox on the Run,” in memory of my cousins and our country upbringing. We went to the observatory and wrapped in blankets – we regarded the night sky. The high school English teacher turned astronomer rose the roof and spoke of the galaxy and light speed. The telescope rotated, catching the full moon rising out of a cloud cover. I was awestruck by what lies beyond the naked gaze, by the inability to fully grasp what is seen in contrast to what exists, by the essence of faith.

That evening our turn down person left a card by our nightstand. “When it is the darkest, men see the stars.” Emerson.

True that, Ralphie.

On our last day, we went to the spa. Our accommodations were nice, and I padded in the plush robe and slippers to the women’s holding cell and awaited the therapist. My mobile device was sealed in a locker, and I was alone with the sunlit mountain view. The blessings of life assembled there with me, setting in like dew. It was an undistracted moment of quiet gratitude because it’s not hard to be quiet when they take your technology and it’s not hard to be grateful when you are fixin’ to get a rub down.

My service provider came and led me to the massage room. Identical ivory-colored cards, embossed with a raised khaki shaded design were fanned out like the face of a clock on the massage table. I joked that if I had to play Solitaire before we got started, we might need more time.

She explained that the cards each had a specific meaning and depending on the card I chose, she would glean what I needed and there was also something underneath the card for me to take home. Oh, goody. Everyone knows that I love me some presents.

I felt a magnetic pull to eleven o’clock. I closed my eyes and tried to settle my thinking. While by nature, I am decisive, I don’t like to rush special moments. Maybe three would be better since it’s March and SHLB’s birthday. Perhaps I should choose my lucky number, five. Nope. Like a water witch, my arm was drawn to eleven. I rationalized that Gina A’s birthday is 11/11, and she is all things good, so I responded to the tug.

I flipped over eleven, and there it was, a package of sage seeds. Sigh.

Here I am at the end of a fabulous vacay being asked by the universe to release my restrictions and cleanse myself of toxic blockers. Damn sage. Why you want to yuck my yum?

The masseuse left the room and sage and I crawled on to the table, positioned belly down, head in the face cradle, and sized each other up. I breathed deeply.

Sage started talking.

You know that part where people burn me to get rid of evil, that’s just one of my roles.

I shrugged. I don’t like chatting during treatments, but she kept at it.

Remember your mom’s sage bush? It was humongous. One of the biggest in the county.

My mom had a grand sage bush, and our driveway was full of family and neighbors every November, a community leaf plucking for the freshest of Thanksgivings. Mom picked sacks full and took to our church, where people filled Ziplock’s labeled, “Jean’s sage.” I love the smell and flavor of sage, especially hand-harvested leaves. I don’t know why I haven’t connected those two pieces before.

Okay. Sage: on the scoreboard with a solid point.

Also, think about sage in terms of wisdom. Sage advice is the crème de la crème. In fact, if you want to talk root words, my Latin origin is sapere which means, “be wise.” Not to be conceited, but I’m a big deal among those who seek truth and peace.

Ah, interesting spin. Sage as confident wisdom, the very thing I crave, the trait I’m most drawn to in others – providing something I don’t have or understand through knowledge and love.

When we got back to the room, I asked SHLB what card he picked.

The one on the left. It was Chamomile. 

Why did you pick that one?

Because I’m left-handed. It was seeds. Do you want them?

Yes, I want them.

Here’s to travel and moving about the world in a way that best suits you, sowing good seeds where you can. As for sage, may it be your seasoning, your wisdom, and your toxic, evil, bad thingy removal agent – or may it just be sage. You decide.