It is not true that people stop pursuing dreams because they grow old, they grow old because they stop pursuing dreams. ― Gabriel Garcia Marquez
Six months ago, in the last few days of 2023, I chose a word to live by for the next 12 months. Corny, perhaps, but necessary. I turned 70 last August, and I was determined to pursue my dreams, without delay.
There were three totemic words on my shortlist, but there was no contest: “intrepid” was the only true contender. When I rolled it around in my mouth, listened with my heart, it was the one — just right.
And so it began, my year of intrepid: a time when I would take some big leaps into the unknown, aiming to make my fondest wishes come true. I shared the word with my California friend Peggi, with whom I exchange a daily gratitude list. She asked if she could use “intrepid” too. Of course, I said. Let’s share it, make it our motto. Peggi is one breath older than I am, and both of us live with gusto. We take chances: zestful, life-affirming chances.
And so it began, my year of “intrepid"
First, I planned a long-awaited trip to South Africa, to launch into my next memoir: a return to the country where I spent my most transformative years as a young girl. It was searing, both beautiful and violent, the height of Apartheid, the early Sixties. I wanted to go back, to bring my writerly self to the scene of my memories.
I began to shape my five-week trip, choosing my itinerary, my travel companions. I arranged to teach a five-day version of my Writing Your Recovery course at the beautiful retreat space known as Bodhi Khaya (dates are May 13 to 18, 2025, in case you’re interested). It’s still a work in progress. Am I nervous? A little. Excited, too.
Next, I took my dream of moving to LA and made it reality. Why Los Angeles? My son Nicholas and his wife Ciara just had their second child, a sibling for two-year-old Frances. This, plus they are managing a renovation of their sweet picture-book home. I offered to move to LA for several months, to help with the children. Together, we have rented a bright three-bedroom home in which to welcome the new baby, to live as a multi-generational five-some, plus Grandpa, their prince of a Mexican street dog.
These days, I watch my capable daughter-in-law in awe—she of the green hair and the gorgeous sea creature tattoos. To me, she is a mermaid, otherworldly in her resolve, her sure-footedness. My son is a natural and gifted parent, and so is she: their moves, unchoreographed, make for a peaceful, nurturing home.
And so I take their lead, playing my favourite role of Nanna. For them, I am cooking vegetarian meals, walking Grandpa up into the beautiful Mt. Washington neighbourhood. I am reading nightly to Frances, picture books of my youth, and my son’s, and more. Two nights ago, she recited every page of Margaret Wise Brown’s The Little Island, to the letter. Nothing defines intrepid so much as a two-year-old: sallying off her change table, leaping onto her bed, tackling the big-kid slide at the park. I learn from her every day.
All the while, I am gently enfolded into my favourite family's world. Here, my time with my granddaughter is limitless—pure joy. As it happens, we share the same sense of humour, a love of good books and a rich appreciation of painting and imagination. In other words, a dream come true.
There is more. Three weeks ago, I delivered a memorable in-person version of my beloved writing course at The Retreat in Wayzata, Minnesota.
For four intense days, 21 women dug deep, mining their memories, producing remarkable writing. Invigorating, inspiring, intrepid women, all bonding in the woods, sharing laughter and tears and yes, dreams: to be published, to be heard, to be whole.
The course—From Memory to Memoir—was hosted by She Recovers, and as such, we did restorative yoga, bone danced, shaking to incessant drums (you had to be there). We made new friends, confiding our secrets, our challenges. On the last night, the irrepressible Sally Murphy from Donegal, Ireland paid me the ultimate compliment: “You are a lighthouse.” To which I replied: “If I am a lighthouse, you are the boats, steering yourselves towards the light.”
We parted with hugs, determined to make room for more writing—all, including me. More writing, less stalling. This is my plan: to write every morning from rising to 11:00, while my battery is full. My morning focus is strong: I wake bolt upright, grounded and ready. It’s a habit that began when I was writing Drink. I cherish the early uninterrupted hours.
Intrepid. I still love the word as much as I did on January 1st. It’s a promise, a gauntlet slapped down. Perhaps I’ll have it tattooed on my heart. I invite you to do the same. Listen to Marquez’s words: pursue your dreams, now, without delay. Make a shortlist of what matters. Remember that each week has 168 hours: budget them well, use them wisely.
Six months into this year, I have one prediction: come New Year’s, I just might choose intrepid all over again. I welcome you to do the same. Let it shape-shift your hours, your years, your life.
As Anaïs Nin said: “Life shrinks or expands in proportion to one’s courage.”
Let yours expand like an accordion, ample as your dreams. - ADJ
WHERE IS THE LOVE BUTTON? ' Like' is simply not sufficient!
What a beautiful piece, loved every word ❤️