I’ve always had a fascination with travel, yet never really understood what it was about making a journey that I was attracted to. I think I may have figured part of it out. I’m a writer. I form new worlds simply by willing them to be. My words breathe life into characters and places never imagined before. Heady stuff.
I think part of my love of traveling has to do with the suspension of reality that takes place during a trip. Time doesn’t even have the same definitions. Everything is a new possibility, and I love it all.
Writers are also readers, and really good writers read a lot. I don’t know how good a writer I am, but reading is like breathing for me. Recently, I’ve found my always eclectic taste drawn to works with a somewhat more mystical and philosophical nature. My imagination drawn to how I fit in the scheme of life and nature.
Traveling brings those connections closer to the surface. It is easy to miss things when you are caught up in the mundane routines of daily life. Things slip into simple repetitive motions. It is like the cords that connect you to the universe fade and curl up inside.
I’m one of those people who believe the journey is more important than the destination. I’ve never been a rigid agenda-type traveler. I know roughly where I want to go, and let Destiny take care of the rest. (I write the same way, for the most part) I can’t think of how many wonderful side-trips and amazing experiences I would have missed had I been compelled to stick to my initial plans. Some of those are the moments where I have found myself closest to what I imagine Nirvana to be.
It’s a bittersweet moment, when you head for home, whether it be from a weekend away, or a lengthy sojourn. But, as the ribbons of Interstate contract and pull me closer, I have to wonder if it isn’t precisely the contrast between the expanse of the unknown and the security of the routine that makes me complete. It reminds me of The Wizard Of Oz. How the brilliance of Oz only became evident against the harsh black and white of Kansas. Part of me needs the grounding reality, as much as the other part longs for the bright blue horizon.