Rucksack Dreaming

I’ve had three brilliant post ideas for this week, but I can’t bring myself to write any of them.

I’d rather just sit here with you, a little too honest, a little too chatty, and rattle off some other words instead.

Every time I get in my car, I wonder how long it would take people to notice if I ran away – if I just didn’t go to work, didn’t come home, didn’t stop until I was hundreds of miles away. Does it count as running away if I’m an adult or is does it become an irresponsible, indefinite vacation?

The first time I tried to leave, I was three. That urge has stayed with me ever since. There have been precious few places in which I felt comfortable enough to stay – my best friend’s house in Minnesota, the crappy last-minute hotel room with my sister in New York City, nestled underneath a particular man’s white comforter in Fort Collins… Each of these places brought me an immense peace – though, perhaps, it was the company and the circumstance which truly drew me in. There I felt malleable, unstuck from the Krista I am back home, less burdened by the sadness and sickness constantly nipping at my heels. Instead I was a more pronounced version of myself – unencumbered, almost, like the layers of illness had been stripped from my skin. But I could never stay in any of these places, not for long, before I returned to the girl in the mirror back home.

I’m tired.

I wonder if someday there will be a place in which I’ll get to stay without any inclination to leave. Maybe this is what it feels like to have a Traveler’s Spirit, or maybe this is another subtle demand for better. I’m not sure.

And I don’t think it’s sad, you know? I’m often surprised by reader feedback in that way. This desire to be elsewhere feels more like a casual fact than an emotional one. It’s simply a statement, like “Krista has red hair, Krista hates beer, Krista is often longing to be elsewhere and she is unsure if she’ll find a place to be.”

Having one foot out the door doesn’t make me sad anymore.

It makes me a better dreamer. It yanks possibilities from the sky and lays them down at my toes. It requires me to demand better, to seek better, to be better. It allows me to understand the wonder that is finding someone who feels like home. It asks me to be grateful, to be worthy, to be kind. It urges me to open myself so that I may feel like home for other people.

flower

I hope I do.

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