WANDERLUST – PASION (Spanish)
I have wanderlust and no it is not a disease though some will label it as such. It has taken me a lifetime to recognize and value my affliction. Usually I hide my condition behind well-constructed socially sanctioned stories such as the need to care for a relative or travel for a new job.
Last week I felt the urge again. This time the desire to be true to my nature permitted me to announce my intention without a cover story. I am a single mature adult after all. I do not need to ask permission or make excuses.
“All that is gold does not glitter,
Not all those who wander are lost.”
It was an old friend who gave me the label – WANDERLUST. When I protested feeling it was a derogatory description, she suggested the image of a butterfly.
Though she prefers to be bound to a fixed address, she recognizes and acceptances my wings. She encouraged me to do the same.
One definition of wanderlust reflects my outlook – “An intense urge for self-development by experiencing the unknown, confronting unforeseen challenges, getting to know unfamiliar cultures, ways of life and behaviors”.
My search of the literature has also revealed kindred sentiments.
“I may stay here in this town another day or I may go on to another town. No one knows where I am. I am taking this bath in life, as you see, and when I have had enough of it I shall go home feeling refreshed.” ― Sherwood Anderson, Death in the Woods and Other Stories
“That thing the nature of which is totally unknown to you is usually what you need to find, and finding it is a matter of getting lost. The word ‘lost’ comes from the old Norse ‘los’ meaning the disbanding of an army…I worry now that people never disband their armies, never go beyond what they know…
A recent article about the return of wildlife to suburbia described snow-covered yards in which the footprints of animals are abundant and those of children are entirely absent. Children seldom roam, even in the safest places… I wonder what will come of placing this generation under house arrest.”
“I love going out of my way, beyond what I know, and finding my way back a few extra miles, by another trail, with a compass that argues with the map…nights alone in motels in remote western towns where I know no one and no one I know knows where I am, nights with strange paintings and floral spreads and cable television that furnish a reprieve from my own biography, when … I have lost myself though I know where I am. Moments when I say to myself as feet or car clear a crest or round a bend; I have never seen this place before. Times when some architectural detail on vista that has escaped me these many years says to me that I never did know where I was, even when I was home.”