For some wanderers, art museums are a must. That’s me. I usually get a good sense of a place by how a community celebrates local art and how much they value recognized art.

So we did a rainy-day art museum exploration in Denver. Wandering through the impressive building, we found ourselves walking between two diverse groups. One was a group of elderly persons being pushed in wheel chairs and the other was a family of toddlers in strollers.

Beyond the wheels, the similarities were striking. Both groups were being “schooled”.

“This is what the artist is saying.”

“This is how it makes me feel. How does it make you feel?”

The most obvious difference between the two groups was volume. The toddlers were spoken to in the softest of voices. While the elders were virtually screamed at.

At one point a well-dressed, elderly man asked his attendant if she would like to change places with him. He was certain that the constant wheelchair pushing was wearing her out. Instead of graciously declining, the woman laughed. Laughed at the stunned elder man. I was sad for him, his loss of respect and unobserved grace.

At another point, a toddler squeezed his eyes tightly shut and leaned back in his stroller. He was then firmly lectured by his father that he would be unable to see the beauty around him unless his eyes were open. I was sad for the child, his overload and disrespected sense of what he needed.

Call me crazy [YOU ARE CRAZY, SARA!] but I believe that allowing people to feel their own feelings is important. Especially when it comes to viewing art. And experiencing kindness.

“Ah, you are so thoughtful, Mr. Grey. I would love to switch places with you for a few moments. But we are nearly done and I need the exercise. I do, however, appreciate that you are thinking of me.”

“Oh my, sweetie. Yes, there IS a lot here. Close your eyes, if you wish, think and feel all the feels.”

Art inspires me. It incites me. It rejuvenates me. It makes me exhausted.

I like to wander museums and stare for as long as I need, sit for as long as I must, even lay down when I need to. (Yes, this later behavior does indeed elicit strange looks or commands from museum personnel on occasion.)

The difference between me and the groups I was following and preceding is that at the magical age of 60, I see myself as museum ready. I believe I have earned the right to enjoy as I wish, in the manner that suits me. Unless, of course, it interferes with someone else’s enjoyment.

And, the cherry on top, is that I don’t care about how this may appear to someone else.

In one exhibition, the artist’s goal was to recreate the feelings of home. The area was carpeted in colorful squares, transparent plastic words hung from the ceiling, moving gently so that at one time some words were readable and others not. A moment later, a small movement and different words were readable. It was a colorful reminder of how our sense of home changes.

Words in a variety of languages were made into large, soft pillows strewn about the exhibit. And in the middle were three huge round, black floor pillows.

As a wanderer, this exhibit hit home (sorry…) for me. Is home a destination? Is it where your “stuff” is? Is it where your history took place? How does home happen? Is it a place you discover? Or, is it something you make?

Each time I unpack my bags into another closet, fill another pantry with my foods, curl up in a new chair to read my book, I feel oddly at home.

Home is now the place where I allow myself to release, to rest, to pause.

As others stood uncertainly at the entrance to the home exhibit, I entered it. I lay down upon the huge black pillows, felt the reprieve and the comfort they provided and opened myself up to the rest.

And oddly, I became a part of it.

“Look, at that lady. She looks relaxed.”

And I was. For a few brief moments, I truly was.