Throughout this last year of my life, I've discovered a new passion of mine: travel. And not like carefully planned family vacations. I mean like waking up one morning and deciding, "I'm going to work in Yellowstone this summer, " or, "I'm going to spend spring break in Ireland," and then doing just that.
Those who look into my life may think I'm incredibly adventurous and spontaneous, that I have nothing rooting me to one place. And they'd be absolutely correct. I pick up my roots and take them with me wherever I go. Don't get me wrong, I'm always fond of coming back home to those I love, but I am still convinced that the world is so incredibly big, and I must experience as much of it as I can.
That being said, while coming home to friends and family is lovely, there's a part of it that's also kind of depressing. See, when I spend a significant amount of time in a new place, it starts to feel like an old place. The new friends start to feel like old friends, and the environment becomes so familiar, I start to call it a home. So when it comes time to return home to all of my responsibilities and obligations, it feels like leaving home to go...well, home.
I am most certain I become more homesick for the places I have traveled to than my actual home. You see, every place I travel to, I discover a new part of myself, as if I unlock a new piece of my heart. I learn from new friends, I try new things within the culture and I allow myself to be fully present in where I am. And when I have to leave those places and the people I met there, it feels like I have to leave that piece of my heart there too. Nobody back home can relate to the experiences I've had while I've been away. Sure, they want to hear the stories and share in my adventures, but they simply weren't there.
Describing a travel experience is like trying to describe color to someone who is colorblind. You can use all of the adjectives and metaphors in the world, but at the end of the day, they won't truly understand the picture you're painting until they can see the color for themselves. And that is no fault of their own, just as the colorblind person is at no fault for being colorblind. He tries his best to understand what you are describing to him. But at the end of the day, you can see the gorgeous sunset behind the mountains, and he sees only the shades of grey.
So forgive me when I return back home, and I seem a bit out of sorts. I'm not sad to see all you lovely, familiar people; I'm simply grieving the loss of a place I called home for a period of time. I will miss that part of my heart that I leave behind, and something like that is not easily understood by others who simply were not there.
That is the price I pay for my wanderlust: I scatter my heart across the world amongst the various people and places I've shown it to. And I wouldn't trade a single one of my little travel homes for any of it.
