With my feet warming from the fire and my throat lusting from my black coffee, do I dare begin to awake the ambitious adventurer that lies within my bones? This question is one that must be asked of a person who thrives to be in the sea of uncertainty. Because you see, if you awake the wanderer inside it’s like waking a bear before spring. You stir awake in surprise at what winter took away and feel that gripping hunger in the pit of your stomach to feed what you are longing for. In fear that I may jump off this familiar shore to pursue those unclaimed trails and to see the unknown with my own eyes; I believe this ravishing desire must be tapped into with utmost caution. Just like every other emotion and characteristic, a free spirit is no exception, it must be controlled and tamed. Nonetheless, it is a desire that must be let out and fed. Just like the winds of the sea, they must roam the earth with a forceful presence; nonetheless the sailors sails must be strong enough to capture them, to use them effectively.
This uncontrollable craving has consumed me since childhood. Like a soldier stuck in a terrible war, you cannot leave the wanderlust natives stuck in a desolate position. You cannot harness the passion that resides in the trailblazers of our world; they’ll break through and run wild and rampant. As I grew, I never had that harness tied too tight. Being raised with my parents pushing individualism and discovery. They were the encouraging type, never the over-protective type. I suppose that is the only way I got myself on that airplane, alone and sixteen, headed for Africa. The only way I got my elementary self to the off-limits side of the waterfall, opposite of the marked out Rocky Mountain trail that my family was cruising.
My fierce longing for intoxicating thrills and gyrate jaunts probably started to form the fibers of my bones long before I can imagine. Maybe it was my great-great German granddad who wandered into Nebraska to gain a plot of land and to start a farm, a family, and a life from scratch. Then again maybe it resides in the history with the pilgrimage of my other grandfather, Evald Greenwall, when he sailed here from the Swedish seas. Venture plunging and that sauntering stature flows in my family’s blood, but can I deny that those same longings are held by my patriotic forefathers? Our entire country is founded by those who lived across the waters and trekked to America, whether it was for religious or economic reasons. The 1600’s were not the last to hold days of successful traveling farther westward, farther from their homes in search of the new frontier. Who knows how many families were inspired by Daniel Boone’s explorations into the “Eden of the West.”
I will always claim my American roots and stand with my hand in a patriotic position as that star striped flag waves. Although, I love my great nation I cannot lie and say this is where I was born and this is where I will die. My heart has buried itself in the foreign soils that I have seen, as well as those that I have only dreamed about. My daydreaming is continually packed full with visions of land, food, music, and architectures that do not match those of America. So maybe this initial stirring started in my bones from my fathers before me, but it started in my heart that first time I set foot on Mexican soil in my adolescence. It grew from there leading me to travel every chance I could, be it through American territories or countries spread across the earth.
I played with the children not much younger than I on the Mexican dirt just south of the border. They helped open my eyes to the world beyond my own. I stood intrigued in amazement as the African women jumped and yelped in church service with the mountains and safari life in the background. My heart grew more attached as I cried next to the Jamaican girls that I connected with better than the American girls that overwhelmed my home culture. But my curiosity continued to peak when I walked the cobble stoned streets of Ancona, Italy practicing Italian after my language lesson and effortlessly gaining weight from gelato every night. I became committed to the international world when I faced hardships and trials in Bangkok’s schools. This is when I realized that I would rather be miserable teaching English in the Thailand heat then live comfortably in my box in America. Through laughter and tears, amazement and wonder, I started a passionate love affair with these alien cultures.
If wanderlust is romantic, it can also be perilous. I had to learn this lesson in a ruthless, relentless way when I got my blonde, nineteen year old self stuck in the southern borders of Mexico, in the Chiapas territory. Being held at gunpoint by the organized soldiers of the Gorilla rebels, the Zapatistas, I had to accept the fact that I had stumbled into water high over my head. It’s one thing to admit you have done something stupid, like jumped into the water impulsively without knowing how to swim, its another to stand there realizing you jumped in with the shortage of swimming skills, into shark infested waters. But that is part of venturing, exploring, discovering; how do you expect to get to greatness without a bit of folly? The best experiences aren’t out in the open for all to taste; they are the ones hiding behind risk and his brother danger.
Some people, those who fear even the border of their comfort box would say that my life has been full, that my life has seen risk and adventure. But when I look at what I have accomplished, where I have walked, where I stood and where I fell it is a minor detail in what I see my future holding. By the end of 1862 Abraham Lincoln declared, “The dogmas of the quiet past are inadequate for the stormy present.” I hope that my past experiences are whispers compared to the experiences I will gain. I will hopefully learn and take lessons from my past, from my defeats and my winnings, sending them into my future. I have hopefully become a woman of stature and stoic throughout the past twenty-two years. Using my past days as winds for my present sails.
Do I fully know my credo? Not exactly. Do I have a firm opinion on all the principles and morals of my life? Not nearly. But I do have a set foundation; I do have a strong base that lays the groundwork for flying away. Could a rocket ship ever make it to the moon if it was launched from a swamp? You have to lay that concrete as a solid, almost unyielding surface. Being a journey junkie is being open-minded, accepting and natural in ambiguity. Being thick enough to be able to put yourself in situations where you may lose your innocence, but never your substance. If your heart is the essence of a free-spirited bird you have to open the cage door and let it fly. Allow it to explore the lands that were formed in seven days by the God of the Bible. But if your bird’s wings are clipped, or not strong enough for the flight, do not be foolish enough to believe you’re adequate enough for the flight.
I don’t believe wanderlust wishing must be running in your veins, or your family tree for that matter in order to venture out; but by this warm fire I will stay, until I know my maturity’s foundation is rooted deep down into the soil. My sails are opening and are yearning for those winds, and when the day comes and the winds blow and kisses them, pushing them into the dark storm of the night that conceals the world’s most hidden treasures, I will take them in. I will take in the winds, with the blows and the blusters along with the endearments and sacraments. For I am merely a sailor standing at shore with water to my knees being guiding by the starlit structures overhead.
