Wanderlust

(I will be back here, to Ireland, in a few short weeks.)

There are days where I get caught up in the minutia.

In the drain of a long night spent writing papers.

Or a weekend spent watching TV.

And I crave more.

I remember that I have dreams,

and places I want to see.

I want sea salt in my hair and sunshine on my skin, 

and mountain winds blowing around me.

I want to meet all kinds of people and hear their stories.

And tell their stories.

And I want to be more than a job or a degree or a name or an address.

There are moments when I can feel life coursing through my veins,

but those are few and far between lately, drowned out by the sounds of my own concerns for the future.

At the heart of the issue is that question that lingers, always, at the back of my mind:

"What was I born to do? Why am I here?"

Every now and again something subtle will give me a clue.

My heart relaxes and I take a deep breath, and I am contented, at least for that instant.

But it goes away as quickly as it comes, and I can never quite tell what it meant.

It seems to say, "You have a purpose. You have a destiny. And you're living it now."

What I'd give to bottle that feeling.

Until then, I stumble around, tossing endless possibilities around in my mind, thinking that maybe it's something so simple I have overlooked it entirely.

It's certainly not a paycheck or a title. It might just be fresh air and a cup of tea. Or meeting up with an old friend. Or kissing my boyfriend at the end of a long day.

It's hard to part with the idea that a career is our identity. It's hard to accept that we will always be more than what we have or what we do, because that means it's more difficult to find.

But that's what makes it worth it, right?

Wanderlust isn't just for new places.

It's for ourselves, our true north.

And only we can be our own compass.