Why You Travel

You don't want the children to know how afraid
you are. You want to be sure their hold on life

is steady, sturdy. Were mothers and fathers
always this anxious, holding the ringing

receiver close to the ear: Why don't they answer
where could they be? There's a conspiracy

to protect the young, so they'll be fearless,
it's why you travel - it's a way of trying

to let go, of lying. You don't sit
in a stiff chair and worry, you keep moving.

Postcards from the Alamo, the Alhambra.
Photos of you in Barcelona, Gaudi's park

swirling behind you. There you are in the Garden
of the Master of the Fishing Nets, one red tree

against a white wall, koi swarming
over each other in the thick demoralized pond.

You, fainting at the Buddhist caves.
Climbing with thousands on the Great Wall,

wearing a straw hat, a backpack, a year
before the students at Tiananmen Square.

Having the time of your life, blistered and smiling.
The acid of your fear could eat the world.

- Gail Mazur

About a year and a half ago, I submitted a travel piece in a writing class I was taking. It was about how I fell into travel as a lifestyle, as a career, and how passionate I am about movement and seeing the world. I was proud of it.

The feedback was decent, but the instructor had one innocent question: why? Why do you travel? Why, for you, is movement so meaningful? What does it represent, and what does it heal, or save?

The essay was hollow, she said. Nice enough, but ringing empty. What was the undercurrent beneath my essay? (Which is actually asking, what is the undercurrent of my whole life?)

I was blindsided by this question. The truth is that I have no idea. What a weird concept, to realize you have no idea why you are the way you are.

Something in here rings true, though.

"It's a way of trying to let go, of lying. You don't sit in a stiff chair and worry, you keep moving."

Traveling is like dousing yourself in electricity. If you're doing it right, everything should feel different. The air, the sounds, the sights, the colors. You should be a little bit afraid. You climb off the airplane in the middle of nowhere in the middle of the night and all of your senses are heightened, brightened. You are instantly more alive than you would have been at home, setting the coffee for the morning and straightening the kitchen. And you are thankful for this, and aware of your moments. Aware, for once, of the precise sound your footsteps are making on new earth.

What's so wrong with staying still? I still don't know. And I'm not sure that it matters. We all find our meaning however we can. Or we should.