Wandering Home

“I was born under a wandering star,” the craggy well-worn voice laments. I understand that at times my gypsy soul grows weary and I must take a rest. A hiatus. At first it is a comfort, turning into complacency until the tiny bits of oxygen in my blood stream start to bubble. My breathing quickens, my steps more calculated—with purpose, and my heart beats with the rhythm of promise. The still small voice is whispering ’time to go.’

It seems to run in cycles. Perhaps it is the pull of the moons or the constant movement of the tides. The way the winds change and began to blow away rather than toward. Waiting for it is sometimes difficult, often I believe I am ready before it’s time, the impatience desperately knocking at the closed door. Yet, at the last moment I surrender, knowing that everything has its moment and forcing it usually ends in disappointment.

Occasionally, it has been time, or so it seems, and circumstances get in the way of departure. People depend on you, things need to be done and the offhand, “sorry I must go, the wanderlust is calling” doesn’t work for those who do not understand its pull.

When my son was young, I chose to keep him in the same school district rather than move him all over the world. It was a difficult time peppered with as many holidays as a single mom could manage, until I began moving houses in the same town just to mix it up!

Perhaps being born under a wandering star can be exhausting for those that fight its cycles, but I would not want it any other way.  Different people, places, opportunities can be fascinating. Often I find that it is much the same everywhere I roam, but, it is the possibility of magic, the thrill of the adventure, and the incredible freedom of stepping away from it all, that fills me. Living in the moment, free and open to the possibilities is at once frightening and thrilling. Like an adrenalin junky scaling a mountain, you can never be sure what the outcome will be, but you know it will lead you to another, perhaps bigger and better adventure.

It is almost time. I make preparations, I check the list, I calmly work through the necessities, but on the inside I am longing to run. It is so close now that I can taste it, but the days and the minutes are beginning to slow. Each passing date on the calendar dragging by at a crawl, the very same days that will rush by like a hurricane once I reach my destination.  

Home is a place that lives inside us all. Not a building or a town or even a set group of people called ‘family,’ it is in the very heart of our soul. The place where we feel safe, loved and cared for. Where we know we are finally good enough. The place where freedom lives.
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Soon.