In the last ten days, I’ve traveled by airplane, convertible, foot, SUV, cruise ship, minivan, tram, car, swimming, and even bed and hot tub (via cruise ship). Now, with two snoring dogs by my side, I’m rocking in an old chair staring at winter in its stillness.
I’m grateful for all the motion, and for no longer being on the move. After a tangle of time consulting with on-line maps, in hand maps, GPS devices, itineraries, how many lights to pass before turning right, and whether the angle of the sun means we’re going north or east, it’s a joy to be beyond navigation for a while. Behind me is sunset on the sea, driving fast in a convertible down hills bordered by forests of pine, wandering down streets to reach the sand and then the water, pumping iron with a view of the afternoon sun on the ocean, and cutting through suburban backyards to make a shortcut from the yoga studio to my sister’s house. Ahead of me are all the other travels — geographical, emotional, intellectual, often physical — of the rest of my life.
Yet right now, I’ve quietly encased in a sense of stillness. The bright blue sky frames the shining branches of Cottonwood Mel. The sun blurs yellow on the window to the west. My wanderlust and love of home, exhalation and inhalation, sway in perfect balance.