As an adult, I am very into being rooted. I love my city. My neighborhood. My coffee shop. My people.
However, looking back I notice that my greatest leaps of personal development in life have always taken place far away from the “community” I hold so dear. It has only been in leaving home that I have learned (and re-learned) my most essential life lesson, which is that I am actually the architect of my community. I source, connect and build the creative-generous-feminist-coffee-slinging-kale-eating-dance-party-having-drake-obsessed community of my dreams wherever I go. It’s in me.
That is a hard lesson for people – for me – to remember because unless you’re evolved as fuck, you get attached to things. And people. You get reliant. You forget that you were the one who found those people, those places, all that stuff in the first place.
But travel is about so much more than escapism. It’s about challenging yourself to be uncomfortable for a little while. To live without your stuff, your people, your places. To see the same world, through the same eyes, but a new perspective.
On this particular trip I learned that even though I didn’t know it, I was desperately in need of a hammock, a dear friend, 16 hours in a hot car, a plate of barbeque, a Steve Earle concert and bright orange trailer lovingly referred to as “Sparton Manor.”