It's March in the Pacific Northwest, so I suppose it is not surprising that I see photos of the tropics - Florida or Tanzania, it hardly seems to matter - and itch with desire to go. I physically cannot sit still because the desire to leave is so strong. It is sunny there, and green, and the flowers are blooming red and orange and purple. Here, it is cloudy and spitting, but it will not properly rain.
I always wonder what part of it is just restlessness. Better yet, wanderlust. I happened upon that forgotten word this morning and it rang clear like a bell in my head. Wanderlust. I wear a pendant every day that says, in a slight misquotation of Bilbo's poem about Aragorn in the Lord of the Rings, "Not all who wander are lost."
Before the crisis-of-work, I thought that was all it was, this desire. My wanderlust, speaking through my determination to put down roots. I thought that, and then I started looking at jobs.
These are the jobs I want to do. These are the jobs that I can see myself doing for a decade or two or three. Whenever I look at a job in Gone West, I think, "Yeah, that would be interesting. For a few years. Maybe. It would pay the bills, anyway." (And that was back when there were jobs. Now there just are no jobs here, not jobs that look even mildly interesting.) When I look at these jobs in New York, in London, in Nairobi, I see jobs that I really long to do, not just jobs that I would do because they are in a place where I thought I could make a home.
I don't want to get myself into a trap where I have to move every few years. I wanted Gone West to be home. I wanted to be content in one place.
Fact is, though, this place is not content with me. Very soon, I will struggle to buy groceries. Something has to give, and it looks like it's going to be location, and a part of me? A part of me thrills to that. Not all of me - much of me will be deeply sad to leave this place, and the people who have made it the beginning of a home. But part of me, the part of me that looks up at planes in the evening sky and lifts her arms in longing to be taken up into them and carried somewhere far away, that part is delighted.
I always wonder what part of it is just restlessness. Better yet, wanderlust. I happened upon that forgotten word this morning and it rang clear like a bell in my head. Wanderlust. I wear a pendant every day that says, in a slight misquotation of Bilbo's poem about Aragorn in the Lord of the Rings, "Not all who wander are lost."
Before the crisis-of-work, I thought that was all it was, this desire. My wanderlust, speaking through my determination to put down roots. I thought that, and then I started looking at jobs.
These are the jobs I want to do. These are the jobs that I can see myself doing for a decade or two or three. Whenever I look at a job in Gone West, I think, "Yeah, that would be interesting. For a few years. Maybe. It would pay the bills, anyway." (And that was back when there were jobs. Now there just are no jobs here, not jobs that look even mildly interesting.) When I look at these jobs in New York, in London, in Nairobi, I see jobs that I really long to do, not just jobs that I would do because they are in a place where I thought I could make a home.
I don't want to get myself into a trap where I have to move every few years. I wanted Gone West to be home. I wanted to be content in one place.
Fact is, though, this place is not content with me. Very soon, I will struggle to buy groceries. Something has to give, and it looks like it's going to be location, and a part of me? A part of me thrills to that. Not all of me - much of me will be deeply sad to leave this place, and the people who have made it the beginning of a home. But part of me, the part of me that looks up at planes in the evening sky and lifts her arms in longing to be taken up into them and carried somewhere far away, that part is delighted.
No comments:
Post a Comment