The Wandering Heart

It had been a while since I’d had a Wandering Heart kind of day. August had been…a lot. And if you’re someone who pays attention to astrology, you probably know exactly what I mean. Eclipse season did not come to play. So when my husband mentioned that he needed to run an errand in southern New Hampshire, something in me perked up – Ooh. What’s up there? Could we turn an errand into a day trip? Find a waterfall? A little country store? A good sandwich? Maybe stumble upon something we weren’t looking for? And to honor transparency, part of me was hoping the day might inspire me to write again. It had been a while since I felt that spark. So naturally, I did what any spontaneous wanderer does – I made a “plan.”

We would head north through Worcester and Fitchburg toward southern N.H. I found Purgatory Falls for our nature fix and a maple market where we could grab lunch along the way. We had destinations. We had children. We had snacks. We were wandering. Sort of…

And then I saw the sign! Somewhere along the drive, I happened to notice a sign for Pickity Place. A friend had recently mentioned it to me, but I knew almost nothing about it. “Wait! Pickity Place! Let’s see how far away it is.” Six minutes. Six minutes off course? Now this was The Wandering Heart. We turned. The road narrowed into a winding dirt road through the woods until eventually we were deposited into a little parking area where the spaces seemed to have been carved right into the trees. Immediately, I knew. This is it.

As we walked toward the little red cottage, it felt almost like we were walking through the woods toward Grandma’s house – which makes perfect sense, because Pickity Place is connected to the illustrations of Little Red Riding Hood. The property itself felt like stepping into another little world. There were gardens overflowing with color, tiny fairy houses tucked among the plants, little shops to wander through, and evidence everywhere of how much care had gone into creating and tending this place. There was even a groundskeeper waling around singing as he worked. I mean, come on!

We found the shed belonging to the Big Bad Wolf, and inside, herbs hung drying from the ceiling. The smell stopped me. I dry herbs at home, and there is something about the whole process that feels sacred to me – the gathering, the hanging, the waiting. Standing underneath those bundles, breathing them in, I felt that familiar little tug of recognition. Someone had put intention here. You could feel it.

My daughter and I wandered through the gift shops and found tiny decorations for a fairy garden. We decided we would bring some home and start our own. And – for perhaps the first time in recorded history – I successfully convinced her to purchase something other than another stuffed animal. My son, however, remained committed to the cause and left with a stuffed chicken. I tried for the wolf. I lost.

At some point during this day, I started thinking about the fact that there may actually be two different kinds of wandering here. There is wandering, and then there is wandering with children. They are not quite the same thing. When I first imagined The Wandering Heart, I think I was imagining the kind of day where you can follow whatever catches your attention. What’s down that road? Should we stop here? What if we skip what we planned and do this instead? You an stay somewhere longer because it feels good. You can eat whenever you get hungry. You can drive twenty minutes out of the way because someone mentioned a swimming hole or an old bookstore or a sandwich that apparently changes lives. Wandering with kids still contains some of that, but also contains: I’m hungry. I don’t want anything here. How much longer? I have to pee. And occasionally: Please do not fall off that rock and crack your head open.

At our lunch stop, Ben’s Sugar Shack, we wandered through a big market filled with produce, maple products and local goods before ordering sandwiches from the deli. My husband and I split a turkey BLT wrap and the Simple Italian. The Italian won for me, although next time I think I’d put that TBLT situation on sourdough. Our son, meanwhile, did not share our enthusiasm for the sandwich selection. And our whimsical N.H. lunch briefly became a parenting opportunity. We adjusted, we gently worked through it. Prepared chicken fingers were eventually procured. And everyone survived. This, too, apparently, is wandering.

Eventually, we made our way to Purgatory Falls. I hadn’t done quite enough research on the trail itself and had pictured a relatively easy walk alongside a river. The trail we found was shorter than I expected because beyond the falls it became steeper than we wanted to tackle with the kids. Considering how hot and humid it was, that probably worked out in our favor. We spent an hour wandering through the woods. The water was low – we desperately needed rain – but the falls were still beautiful. Round, moss-covered rocks created little stepping stones across the river, and we carefully made our way from one side to the other.

At one point, I sat down on a rock beside the place where the water dropped. For just a moment, I stopped. I could feel the vibration of the waterfall beneath me. There is something so powerful about being close to moving water that you don’t just hear it – you feel it. And I let myself feel it. For approximately seventeen seconds. Because I am also a mother, and my children were navigating moss-covered rocks beside a waterfall. So there I was, trying to commune with the power of the moving water while another part of my nervous system was essentially screaming – PLEASE NOBODY FALL. Maybe that is the perfect description of wandering with children. You get the moment. You just might not get to disappear into it.

After taking care of the actual reason we’d driven to NH in the first place, we found ourselves in Hudson with a little time to kill before the hour-and-a-half drive home. So I pulled out my phone again. What’s around here – and is there a cute coffee shop? That question might be the unofficial Wandering Heart motto.

First, I attempted to find that coffee shop, but apparently 3:30 in the afternoon is a terrible time to be a woman seeking an independent coffee shop in southern N.H. We then found Benson Park, which I learned had once been a wild animal farm, an old zoo and amusement park. Now it’s a sprawling public park with trails, ponds and remnants of its unusual past. The kids ran around. We wandered near the water. Everyone got some energy out before climbing back into the car.

When we finally got home, I have to admit: I didn’t feel completely fulfilled. The day had been good. We had explored somewhere new. We had walked in the woods. We ate sandwiches. We stumbled upon a magical little place we hadn’t planned to visit. But something about the day had also felt a little…forced. I think I had gone into it wanting to create a feeling. I wanted another Wandering Heart day. I wanted to feel inspired again. And maybe that is not something you can manufacture. Maybe wandering requires a certain amount of spaciousness. And when you’re traveling as a family, some of that space is naturally occupied by the needs of the people you love.

That doesn’t make family wandering less valuable. It just makes it different. But there’s the thing I’ve realized since coming home. I remember the dirt road. I remember the parking spaces tucked into the trees. I remember walking toward that little red cottage and knowing in my body that this was the wander. I remember the groundskeeper singing. I remember the smell of the herbs hanging from the ceiling. I remember the fairy houses and the colors of the gardens. I remember the moss-covered stones. I remember sitting besides a waterfall long enough to feel its vibration underneath me. I remember picking out tiny pieces of a fairy garden with my daughter.

Maybe I didn’t come home overflowing with inspiration. Maybe this wasn’t the next great Wandering Heart adventure. Maybe I was simply finding my way back. Because somewhere along the way, I started paying attention again. And perhaps that’s where wandering begins. Not with the perfect itinerary. Not even with the perfect day. But with noticing the sign on the side of the road and being willing to say: Let’s see what’s down there.