Not all those who wander are lost.
I’m off to Milan today to see if I can get in to see the Last Supper by Leonardo Da Vinci, not to mention it will be good to get into a more modern city for a day.
There’s a certain charm to being a vagabond. The excitement of not knowing what will happen next, a change of scenery whenever you like, and little care in the world for such menial things that someone who demands roots be put down would be fretting over every minute of every day if they were with me. Having very little to care for except to see what lies beyond the next hill, wondering how it will change you forever is an incredible way to live.
What drives a person to such an existence?
Staying in one place too long, perhaps? Being tired of the daily toil, the never ending weekly clock that slowly ticks to laying in one’s grave would certainly drive a man to escape the clock even for a little while. Perchance it is the safety of a home waiting at the end of a journey? The little hobbit hole with a warm fire and hearty meal that happily welcomes a wanderer back from his travels. Maybe that dark and shamed desire to see what is over the next hill? To not be satisfied with what you have seen, what you have at hand that you are meant to be content with that drives a man to wander.
For me, it was meeting many a man who had wandered, and had brought back the sun. Yarns spun of the darkest nights and the brightest of days, of missed planes and unexpected adventures, of dangerous encounters and newfound friends. Tales that enthralled the spirit within me begging for its own wandering.
And so I finally had the chance to wander on my own, and I seized it with both hands and will not let go of the dragon I so foolishly chose to ride until we have soared to the stars and bring back a sun of my own.