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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.
