Que Sera Sara?

I recently came across my Travel Tuesday stories: a short-lived weekly ritual exploring places I had been as we waited (and waited and waited) for the uncertain future to transport us to America.

I felt strangely jealous.  Delighted to revisit places I fondly remember, surprised and rather chuffed at being transported by words I don’t remember writing but find I still believe in.

I didn’t know I’d been that good of a writer. And I didn’t know I’d stopped.

To be fair, I’ve stopped a great many things in this new life. In no particular order: shiatsu; hill climbing; chillblains; short story writing; depressing grey Sunday fights; being afraid of the city; saying yes when I mean no; drinking cocktails; having all my friendships stem from work relationships; eating dessert everyday.

And I’ve begun many others: teaching at University; lecturing at museums; morning swims; hiking canyons and wild woods out of Last of the Mohicans; editing a magazine; developing a publisher; becoming addicted to Chipotle carnitas tacos; going to the dentist regularly; playing board games; going to dive bars.

I didn’t stop living, but I did stop stopping to reflect on it.

Part of me feels it’s not worth the pixels. My stories from the last three years are not glamorous. I do not jaunt to Italy for conferences or spend my birthday in Stockholm. I barely make it to the library let alone galleries.

I chose a smaller life, with more focus and more independence. I chose me over adventures, didn’t I?

It’s true, I won’t be in Malta for the creative cultural summit next year. Or jetting to Melbourne again anytime soon.

But I naively forgot the doesn’t mean I’m not having adventures. The other day we went to a town on an island in the middle of the Mississippi River. We went sunset sailing on a replica 18C trading clipper. We forded a river to get to a 4-story waterfall. Last winter, I stayed in a cabin full of triple-bunks a mile out on a frozen lake and went fishing through a hole in the floor.

Just because a two hour journey lands me in farm country instead of a different country doesn’t mean we didn’t travel, and it certainly doesn’t mean what we found isn’t worth remembering.