(Hmmm. It just occurred to me how literal that statement is for me all the time...)
We headed to Santa Cruz in our cozy little trailer last weekend for a Thursday to Sunday trip. Perhaps one day we'll be better at this or have a trailer that's permanently equipped with everything we need to make a speedy departure easy, but for now, it's not quite lickety-split - although it's a lot better than it was at Christmas! And lest it sound like I'm complaining, it simply appeals to the constant wanderer in me to be able to go at a moments notice. Bruce Chatwin was a hero of mine for a long time - back when it was easy to read the words and separate them from a flawed human writing them. But he spoke to the wanderer in me (and the anthropologist - and apparently, the fiction writer as is known about his work). When he pointed out that "Yet, in the East, they still preserve the once universal concept: that wandering re-establishes the original harmony which once existed between man and the universe.” - (from The Songlines) he seemed to know my soul.
Now that we're a family of four and growing, it's a bit more involved to just hit the road. But I wouldn't have it any other way. What Bruce didn't point out was that traveling with children or husbands who bring other passions along introduces you to a great many details of the journey that you'd have missed without their eyes and ears. It's not so easy to dip down to Patagonia with a family of four, but it's pretty easy to find contentment in a campground bordered by the Pacific on one side and strawberry fields on the others when your idea of adventure includes (without being limited to) cliff hikes, bug watching, bike riding, hill running, surfing, campfire singing, sand castle building and exploring all that which is within your immediate vicinity.
It can be easy to forget that the road is not only what lies ahead, but also what lies under your feet right now. Perhaps this was part of what Buddha was saying when he spoke of not being able to travel the path until you became the path? Given how dirty Sawyer gets - and how quickly - his is an even more literal take on this philosophy. And that is part of the joy. There is pure bliss in his face when, the moment his feet touch the sand, he runs kicks of his shoes, runs forward with arms open wide until he falls, rolling in every direction, sand running through his fingers and toes, pouring into pockets, blending with his hair. Jordan goes immediately for the blessing of the ocean: there is a dance she does that is beautiful to watch and is all about her silent commune with the sea.
The dirt goes deeper and involves the smoke and ash form the campfire, the ketchup from the dinner, the tree sap and the chocolate dutch oven cake. Emerging from the camp showers on the second day is a fairly heavenly experience. Given the long runs up and down cliff paths and along miles of pristine beach I got to do this trip, I'm sure it was especially heavenly for no one to have to smell my ripeness anymore. Tom got his usual surfing baptism in, but nothing special so it was a Friday only affair. We decided to not go anywhere on Saturday and with a visit from Mikey, one of our river guides, we explored and rode bikes and built sand castles and had a monumental day of doing nothing and everything. Sawyer learned all about his brakes on his bike, and Tom took Jordan on rides full of "challenges", all of which she met with ease.
Saturday night the world outside our trailer got its own baptism, howling wind and rain cascading in torrents over our little tin can home. We of course stayed watertight and snug although it sounded like the beginning of Noah's storm outside. I had a hard time falling asleep, but sometime after two (having woken up my husband to see if he also couldn't sleep) I fell into blissful dreams and awoke to a sky scrubbed free of clouds, and sunshine melting like butter over the neon greenness of spring. We packed up seamlessly, the kids riding bikes companionably around, and headed home somewhat early, still no surf to be had and a strong wind spring cleaning the beaches. I loved the feeling of loving to go home as much as I had loved to be hitting the road. It felt like the kind of balance one might strive for all their life.
I still want to go, just go - still dream every single day of taking these wild creatures to bless beaches in Africa and climb mountains in Asia, to bike along roads in Italy and run rivers in Iceland. I want to see each one of the United States alongside them as their section of US History, to delve into Canada and sink into Mexico, to know that wherever they are is just where they are meant to be. I want them to taste different foods, hear different accents, to love the feeling of an airplane taking off, and the promise of a full tank of gas. I want it to be too cold, too hot, too dirty, too crowded, too empty, too wild, too tame. And I want them to always be balanced on the knife's edge between wanderlust and the contentment of home.
“Courage is the price that Life extracts for granting peace
The soul that knows it not, knows no release
From little things;
Knows not the vivid loneliness of fear,
Nor mountain heights where bitter joy can hear
The sound of wings.
How can Life grant us boon of living, compensate
For dull gray ugliness and pregnant hate
Unless we dare
The soul’s dominion? Each time we make a choice, we pay
With courage to behold the restless day,
And count it fair.
Amelia Earhart
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