Right at this moment, I’m on a train, visiting states by looking out the window. We just made a stop in Delaware. Delaware! Now Maryland. I’ve never been either of these places before. They seem pretty, as far as I could tell. I’ve become a nomad, one of those puffy dandelion seeds, floating in the wind, with no real anchor, no place to go home to.
I love traveling, but it’s hard to have no home. I’m certainly used to it. I can’t think of many times in my life when I’ve felt like I’ve had a home, but these days, I’ve taken that to the extreme. I have a suitcase with me, a suitcase where I’ll eventually be flying to next, and no idea where I can put my books. Right now they’re in plastic storage bins. Earlier this week, I had no idea where I would be today.
I was talking to a friend who’s a twin traveler, and she’s declared this to be the year of living on the road. I have no choice but to join her, and for the most part, I have no complaints. In fact, I feel lucky to have the opportunity to go wherever the wind takes me, experience the unexpected joys of having no idea where that might be next.
But, right now at this moment, on this train, I also feel a little lonely. It’s nice to have a place to put your books, a place that’s yours, that’s not a little room with bad coffee and malfunctioning irons. It’s nice not to be all by yourself all the time, eating meal after meal of adequate room service. Alone.
Maybe it’s just being on the train, watching everything go by. I have this empty space inside that wishes for just a tiny bit of solid ground. Just one small handful of soil would be enough.
I know that what I need is patience, to just go with being in limbo, let the hotels do my laundry, and make due without a DVR. I can always catch up with the DVDs later. I should take pictures of the statues in Philadelphia while I can and enjoy the silence. And mostly I do. But even so, every so often, I can’t help the ache of wanting to feel the smallest touch from someone who loves me.