Diagnosed

Photo Credit: Shannon Derbique

I am afflicted. I would not categorize it as a disease, nor would I ever venture to say it is a hinderance, per-say. I only know that what I suffer from is real; as real as the necessity of breathing, the base requirement of food and genuine desire for companionship. I have the affliction of wanderlust.

As I have grown older, I have learned many things about myself. I have learned that I have an extremely low tolerance for ignorance. I have learned that I can become resentful and bitter far too easily. I have learned that my desire for peace far outweighs my desire to watch the news. Most of all, I have learned that I have a deep-seeded need to travel.

I feel it like a woman feels the quickening of a child in the womb. It starts as a low tickle, a flipping, rolling excitement in my core that threatens to burst forth with a war-like cry. I have tried to ignore it, to quell its rapid growth, but I have failed more times than I have succeeded. My whole body tingles with excitement and my skin rises in goose-flesh; anticipation threads through me from the nape of my neck to my ankles, curling the arches of my feet, making it difficult to sit still. It has a very real, visceral, physical quality to it that is nearly impossible to describe without sounding as if I am simply in need of a bathroom.

Deciding where to wander has been a delightful part of all of my adventures. As a kid in the 70s and 80s, our family trips were largely in the car to camp or sightsee. I traveled twice with family by plane to Maryland to visit my Dad's people and being a rude, barely tolerable teen I didn't glean much from the experiences. As I have aged, however, I have been exposed to the glorious world of travel via my husband who wanders around the States for work. Although the times I have accompanied him have been to see only the small confines of his job, it sparked in me an adventurous nature that I never saw coming.

In my wanderings I have discovered a new me; I have uncovered an adventurer clad in khakis and a jaunty pith helmet. She is the muse who drags me by the hand into tiny little wine bars to while away the rainy afternoons sipping wine and observing. She has beckoned to me from up ahead, weaving in and out of crowds to a quiet bench on the bay where I can sit for hours, the breeze off the water cooling my skin. She has sat with me in the petty cab as our driver chats about the people he sees and the diversity around him. I cherish her, this very different muse of mine, but she is no less insistent than her counterpart dressed in the pencil skirt and the stilettos. They both are extremely temperamental about being heard and heeded. They simply refuse to be ignored.

It is because of her that I am planning another trip soon; one that I did not see coming. It is an exciting adventure that I hope to complete with as much verve and curiosity as I have my forays into the Deep South. I will undoubtedly share the discoveries, whether here, on my Facebook page or in a new novel, but I will share them. Under the canopies of the Pacific North West I will take pictures, drink wine and fine coffee and ponder the lives of those who live there. I will quench the wanderlust, feed it full and put it to bed if only for a time. I know all too soon my muse will raise her head, pull on her khakis and don that helmet to drag me off again. I will go willingly.

I have an affliction. It is called "Wanderlust," and I hope you catch it too!