I have never been a person afflicted by wanderlust. I have liked my feet firmly on the ground, even as my head wanders the clouds.
I have never really wondered at the wonders beyond the seas, the places only reached by charter plane or puttering boat. I haven’t wanted to travel or see the far reaches of a place. I haven’t wanted to leave my home or see the world.
Sure I’ve been curious. Fascinated by culture and understanding of how important it is we have understanding and tolerance of the differences. But barring a vacation now and then, or a trip to my own back yard -IE into the Canadian wilderness to understand that and how we’ve dishonoured it – I haven’t wanted to leave.
It might be because I’ve never remained in one place for more than 5 years, or that at one point I moved 3 times in a year, and now move at least twice a year and have for the past four years.
I don’t have wanderlust, I don’t feel that drive to get away. Until I do.
Until I am overwhelmed by responsibilities and the weight of my own future. Until I’m faced with my lack of skills, or looks, or self-esteem. It is then, during exam times, and hard times that suddenly I heard the wind calling.
Suddenly I have the need to grab a bag with just the bare necessities, grab my dog and my partner and just go. To leave with no destination and no end goal. To enter the words and never come back. To talk to the people who travel for a living, or who like me are travelling to get away from it all.
I don’t experience wanderlust until it is all I have left to feel, and I wonder, in all my daydreams that are becoming less and less grounded, if that’s necessarily a bad thing.