When I travel, much of what I try to hold control of in my life dissipates. I welcome the relief and let decisions and circumstances flow off my back like water. Difficulties arise and frustration occurs, but I don’t worry about the most efficient use of my time. I am open to experience and what the byways bring my way. I embrace idiosyncrasy, cultural nuance and miscommunication as growth and discovery. Part of showing myself another way of living, another way of thinking.
Why can’t I do this when I’m at home? What is it about home that straps my feet to the floor and has me calculating and sometimes cold to my lover. When I’m lying in bed in the dark staring at glow-in-the-dark stars on my ceiling, I may scold myself for not working through my to-do list or calling my brother or at least going to yoga.
If I could take that “traveling mind” and bottle it up, or put it into place permanently, would I breathe easier and live better? Or would I be choosing to roam the earth letting life happen to me? I pride myself on making things happen, achieving steep goals that I set my mind to. I am afraid to give this up for fear of floating endlessly.
Travel is my therapy, my escape from self-constraint. As I proselytize about the benefits of cross-cultural immersion, I realize that my traveling has been more about me than anything. I’m traveling to escape my control.
