This happens to me every now and then.

I blame books. And my dad. When I was a very tiny little thing, I spent a great deal of time listening to excellent narratives. My parents read me multiple stories every night. Sure, there was probably some “pat the bunny” type action somewhere along the line, but I remember the good stuff. A. A. Milne, Louisa May Alcott, Katherine Paterson, and even some Mark Twain.

Eventually, I could read these stories on my own. I read Madeleine L’Engle, Carolyn Keene, Shel Silverstein — the list goes on.

Somewhere in the middle there — between my parents reading to me and being able to devour novels alone — my dad started telling me stories. These were stories he made up all by himself. I’m pretty sure he made them up on the spot. They were elaborate, too. He would tell me a little bit each night for days until the journey was over. Every story had a young heroine on a quest for something good. She was required to leave her home and face untold trials to set things right.

I say all this because lately, I’ve been feeling kind of antsy. I want to do something risky. Go someplace new. Adventure calls me, and I can’t help it. I know it sounds dramatic (me? dramatic? never!), but I do think that these narratives that were so much a part of my family life growing up have contributed to making me a person with an unusually thirsty soul. I have a very strong need to feel like the girl in the poem or the story with an important mission and a reason to be brave. While I understand this need, and I fill it in small ways (reading/meditating on scripture, praying, distance running, etc.), every so often it grows into a noticeable itch. Good thing I’m taking some trips this summer!

For more random Amundsen Family Adventure Musings, visit my brother’s post, here! What an inspiration!

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