The part of me that has always craved adventure has been mingling with my newfound yearning for “home.”
With “home” comes a new appreciation for just sitting still and being stagnant, which is all very new and unusual to me.
I get buzzed off of adventure, a weird fuzzy high, to the point where I often can’t remember the little details. The general perceptions and feelings stick with me, but images — of the fields and mountains and lakes and rivers and rapids — rarely stick. I try to freeze them, to lock them in, in hopes of storing them until I need to escape, but alas.
And as I grow older, I realize it’s more the journey I crave than the adventure itself. The high I get will always be great, but the journey gives so much more to me.
I’m not concerned about remembering the minor details of every journey. I capture what I can with my camera, and the rest of the time I keep my eyes and ears wide open. It’s the lessons and the conversations I’m after. It’s the connections with the locals they help make the experience.
Adventures create stories you’ll want to tell over and over again, like the time we surprise road tripped from LA to San Francisco or when we randomly played frisbee in a parking lot with Young the Giant until 3 a.m.
Adventures keep you young. Journeys help you grow.
Journeys are for your soul. Sure, they create stories and can be an adventure in and of themselves, but mostly they are for you and you alone. Like getting away to Michigan for the weekend with some close friends. Leaving the itineraries behind, the goal is to relax and experience. The goal is to sit still somewhere else.
On journeys, you always know you’ll be coming back home.
As I get older, the difference between adventures and journeys become more and more clear. They don’t mean the same to me anymore, and that is perfectly fine.
I learn. I grow. I find peace. I willingly come back home.