I have always needed to go. I don’t know if it’s an innate drive. Some sort of genetic trait, where I am always contemplating the next big adventure or place or new thing. There are so many places I want to go to. I look at pictures and write whole stories with them in mind, stories of me standing wherever I place pin into a map. Sometimes in front of the Taj Mahal, or at Machu Picchu. Climbing hills that roll and those steep and rocky and harsh. Staring at the giant waters from continents near and far and trying to label them, Pacific, Atlantic, Mediterranean. I’ve pictured so many places to tread and so many people to meet.

Recently I’ve been taking time to look at the ground: Where my feet are. Finding ways to find room for me. I also found the need for a budget. To save for something steady, and find places to balance and be still. To build some place to belong. I realised that I have often been lost in planning to go. Persuaded by this strange drive. I’m trying to build muscles in that way, and it means that I have to push again this drive to go, like being present is a weight I’m lifting.

I’m building strength to stay. Which is strange.

I wonder sometimes if leaving is this easy thing for everyone, if staying seems so much like training for those around me. Is it a journey and a battle for them?

Contemplate it. Really, truly! And, I’ll be honest. This challenge is growing on me. It’s addictive to learn to be, here.

Something hopeful and so beautifully messy.