Whenever I return from a trip, with a stretch of time unfolding before me where no travel is planned, I definitely start longing for the next departure. It seems I am ever trying to fulfill an adventurous side to me that cannot really be satisfied. The list of destinations I want to go grows more endless the more I see. The unknown beckons from states and countries I’ve yet to explore, cities whose names I cannot even pronounce, foods that I cannot even describe for I’ve never tasted such a feast. Picture postcard places await me; sunrises and sunsets over mountains, seas and plains rise and set, waiting for me to drink in the view. I’m always asking – what’s next? It’s not that I am discontent, exactly. Not with my life. Not with my home. Not with my family. Definitely not with my work {passion}. But I am discontent with how short life really is and how, with every birthday, I get closer to what – the end? the beginning? the balance? Yes, life is short – a realization that comes not just from poets waxing on or actors doling out the advice in cliched movie scripts, but from knowing it to be true. From having experienced love and loss at an early age. And I expect that’s part of what drives me to be, to do, to dare, to dream. But it also spurs me on to find the balance in between. Because while I am playing, absorbing, deciding on the next horizon, I am also always, inevitably, turning towards home. Which really isn’t such a bad direction to be headed.
Seacoast, Rockport MA (recent journey)
