It's exciting because it's new. In recent years, I've taken trips that don't exceed a month, because I can't afford longer excursions. In years past, I spent several months in various destinations. Comparatively, I know that my crap catches up with me. Once the novelty wears off I'm left with routines, responsibilities, & myself, in a new locale. The Havana that was charmingly crumbled and echoing with music becomes the place that houses daily classes and various annoyances. The Buenos Aires that felt haunted, dramatic, sharp, and cool becomes the place of another grind. Get up, on the bus, downtown, & back again.
A month isn't enough time to set up routines, to create accountability, nor to fall into a rut. A month is long enough to be reminded of the excitement of something else... & then maybe to breathe fresh life into the something known.
I still travel for new experiences. The world is so impossibly beautiful and I want to see it. People are so unendingly creative and I want to learn from them.
But I no longer want to escape my life. My life is mine no matter where I am. My life continues along its path of ruts and valleys and wide open runs. I get to cast light on dissatisfaction, potentially illuminating that contentment, like the yogis teach, is a practice. I've never found where it lives on the planet, because it doesn't. It's sweet and elusive and present only when nourished.
Now I travel, in part, to remember to make my life feel like Christmas morning. What unexpected delight awaits me in my routine? What can I be open to in the daily grind?
In my imagination, adventures await in seemingly exotic locations like Mongolia or Tunisia. In reality, I live adventure in domesticity, community-- with myself.
No comments:
Post a Comment