Travel diaries: tears on the open road.
Toronto, Ontario, 2016
I want to wander again and run away. I wonder if I’ll ever find home, my heart whispers to me, tears streaming down my face.
I fear being with people for more than a few weeks or months at a time. A panic starts to set in and I leave.
I leave them all and they say they love me.
I stay with the ones destined to leave, destined to take, but not necessarily to honor.
I’ve tried for those, oh how I’ve fought for those.
I don’t know where this heartache comes from, but I feel at odds with myself in almost every place I’ve lived, despite feeling an ease in adjusting. It’s staying that causes me great inner turmoil.
I run from the things I desire, not able to stomach intimacy in home or work. I fear repression and ostracization so I run.
I just keep running.
When will I stop?
I wrote this heartfelt, emotional excerpt earlier this weekend after watching The Proposal featuring Ryan Reynolds and Sandra Bullock. God, I love that man. He’s a Canadian Scorpio that I want to devour from head to toe. #sigh
It started when I first opened my eyes.
I felt sad and I didn’t know why. I felt like I was losing my best friend and I couldn’t rationalize or see through this phantom grief that emerged from almost no where.
As I read that passage, I see lots of things. I see mind-made-stories and half-baked-truths backed by the power of memory and raw emotion. That’s a wild choo-choo train, one that’s probably best to disembark.
I see the reality of how I tend to move through the world; my own heart trying to reconcile a feeling of being torn between those I love and the vast unknown. It feels as if I have 50 lovers in the form of cities and communities strewn across the world, all of which I love and miss.
One could say I’m in an open relationship with the world. And yet, I keep going.
People told me I was running, and I believed that my insatiable desire to travel meant there was something grossly wrong with me. But today, I have a different understanding.
Life isn’t singular, it’s plural.(+) In the pursuit of that which we love, we may experience pain.
For example, I cry almost every time I leave my most recent home. I build deep connections almost every where I go, whether I’m there for 2 months or 2 years. It breaks my heart every time I drive off and board that plane.
And yet, within those tiny heart breaks is infinite wisdom, energy and excitement. I’m guided on these adventures the way some are guided to the chocolate aisle at the grocery store. It’s a magnetic north from within my core that gets me up dancing, working out, and boarding planes more than the average individual.
I run into magic on these trips. The synchronicity is overwhelming in its exactness and the joy I feel from movement is second to none. But that doesn’t change the longing I feel to see my parents or have Sunday dinners with friends and family.
Our highest isn’t without heartbreak.
I don’t travel like a gypsy for lack of something; it’s quite the opposite. I live like a gypsy for the love of something far greater than my humanity alone can grasp. Writing, producing and directing #AskJuanita, acting, getting Luna and traveling… these things have chosen me more than I them.
The pain of not living these tributary lives spawning from a greater purpose that has no words, but is whispered to me in the silence of the night sky, is far greater than the pain felt in actually birthing them.
To not create is more crippling than to face the potential scrutiny of my digital peers.
To stay in one place for too long is the equivalent of clipping the wings of a magnificent bird. I was meant to fly; I gotta fly no matter how much I tire of the journey south.
To not bring out these crazy characters on film is to deny a very real part of myself, which translates into pain.
Sometimes I tire of traveling so frequently, the same way I imagine some people feel restless from never having left their hometown. Sometimes I dream of living a more traditional life, one I consider to be simpler, but in reality may not be.
There are moments where I feel alone and I deeply question this unmistakable intuitive compass of sorts within me. There are moments when I wish for home and sadden at the realization that home is changing as I grow older. The sense of security that parents once provided is now trading itself in for doses of compassion and signs of more noticeable fragility that age provides.
Nomadic lifestyles come with trade offs.
Like the amount of comforters I’ve bought over the past 3 years (more than 4), the number of plants I've bought and have left behind because they're too difficult to travel with (well over 5), or dog food. Or what doctor’s appointments look like overseas or meeting magical healers in French Canada.
There are trade offs in the human space of living a dream (tweet it). Of choosing a path and following it.
The true path will give to you more than it will take, and yet, there still may be tears. Tradeoffs of sorts that make your story rich and nuanced.
I’m not running; this I realized. It’s more of a dance into the sunset, complete with the occasional nostalgic glance pa'tras at the delicacy of life that was just witnessed.
It’s never easy to leave, or stay, once that moment hits, as I’ve come to realize.