Someone I knew told me once a long time ago when I complained about the horror of the homestead, of my desire to be on the move like the proverbial stone, that I lacked imagination
I think what my friend was trying to tell me is something it’s taken a lifetime to realize.
Travel is a state of mind.
It requires one to maintain the same sense of openness to adventure, to looking for and embracing the new and the different in our everyday lives that we leave home for. The traveling mind doesn’t ever rest–it’s in constant motion. And it’s always in a state of excitement, enjoyment, pleasure. It requires vigilance to not slip into a state of ennui, of routine which ofcourse we all need to function but which must not be allowed to deaden our impulse to fly.
It means, even if this is a cliche, that we must look for beauty every single day, and find it by training the eye and all all our other senses to see, hear, feel, touch all the places and people we whizz past blindly, in a new light, as though learning a new language of the senses.
Reading to be elsewhere, reading home. Home as elsewhere, home as abroad.
Travel means recognizing the Other in the Self.