I don’t write about the things that I plan to write about. Unexpected stories and unplanned words pour out when I sit down to the computer; I often cobble together a post that reads nothing like what’s written in my head.
This post, for instance, was going to discuss:
Which led to deep philosophical contemplation on what the main thing actually is and before long, I realized that I don’t actually want to travel anywhere (not even to another island). Yes, that was a very circuitous route to realize that:
I’ve lost my Wanderlust!
I have been in Hawaii for 1 year, 1 month and 6 days and my restless leg syndrome hasn’t kicked in yet.
For the last decade, the longest that I’ve lived in one place is a whopping 2 years and 3 months. Moving is my normal. Every 2 years (and in three cases, 6 months), the moving truck shows up and my life is packed into a hundred odd cardboard boxes, placed in 5 sealed crates and shipped off to my next destination.
It seems odd that one can get used to this type of life, but I am more than used to it. Moving is as much a part of my life as salsa dancing or wearing a uniform. I can’t imagine living in one place for 5 years, let alone 10! What does one do for ten years in one place? Do you get bored? Do you wish for a change in setting or people or life itself? Don’t you ever want to just run away from it all?
That’s what moving is like for me—running away and starting afresh in a new place. Not that I need a fresh start because I screwed everything up horribly – well, at least not always– but I like the idea of starting again, of seeing new people, of changing out the scenery. It excites me and gives me a bit of a high. In fact, I get the same energy from travelling.
For the past 3 years, travelling was an Olympic sport for me and I was a gold medalist; my wanderlust stemming from my ingrained desire to experience new things and constantly stoked by my repeated moving.
Except I have zero desire to travel, or move for that matter.
Normally at this point in a tour I start to get antsy—glancing at the calendar every couple of days, counting down the time that I have left in one place and calculating the time until I reach the new one. I start frantically thinking about “what comes next” until only my body is present in the current location and all my thoughts and efforts are focused on what lies ahead.
Except that hasn’t happened yet.
I think the word for this strange phenomenon might be contentment, a rarely used word in my vocabulary. I am enjoying my life in the present in all it’s maddening glory, surprising ridiculosness, and undeniable grace. And, for once, I am not racing to change it in any way (not even to add an Italian husband).
I can’t put my finger on what, if anything has shifted. Perhaps I’ve started to ask myself “what’s now?” instead of “what’s next?” I have a suspicion that the Aloha life and Hawaii scenery help keep me from constantly glancing over the rainbow to see what’s coming next.
And I kind of like it that way.