I follow Don Quixote and Sancho from my kitchen window. They are on a quest and I am right behind them traveling the world on my Mac or typing my own world into existence. My father was fascinated by Cervantes’ strange and skinny hero who traveled the Spanish countryside righting wrongs and rescuing maidens. When dad passed he left me this house, this view, some paintings, and these iron figures.
I didn’t read the book. But I did see the musical Man of La Mancha, based on the novel, many years ago, on Broadway. We sat up front, my ex and I. Close enough to see the sweat on the actor’s faces and catch every nuance. Thanks to technology, I am again listening at this moment to Richard Kiley singing “The Impossible Dream.” So many years ago, late sixties probably, I watched him standing alone on the stage, an angular, tall old man with gray beard, leaning on a sword. It was the finale. The audience stood, many of us in tears. Silence for several seconds, the applause that followed went on through three curtain calls. We didn’t want to let go.
Never let go. When you stop questing, what is left?