Like beginnings, the endings
Do not come at home
The journey is finished
When we no longer roam
There’s a point when we look back
To recall what was seen
And a little remorse
For what might have been
Like beginnings, the endings
Do not come at home
The journey is finished
When we no longer roam
There’s a point when we look back
To recall what was seen
And a little remorse
For what might have been
Once under an overturned rowboat
On chill Swedish tundra
Fending off the mosquitoes
For just one more word
Before midnight’s nightfall
And a welcome sleep
But what this writer loves
Is a table, a chair and a view
Overlooking the sea, perhaps
Or a river, and its teeming scene
The best journeys, it seems to me, are the unplanned ones, taken on the spur of the moment, reliant on the benifecence of serendipity. I understand why not everyone who travels would agree with this. For serendipity to work, one must believe in it. Listen for its song. Follow its voice when it calls. One cannot do this if plans are laid down like concrete foundations. Planning must be fluid, flow like a rivulet on a sandy beach, as easily diverted as the whim of a child with a stick.
“Ummm, yeah. Yeah!” I stammered as what she was suggesting sank in with increasing gravity.
“Yeah! That would be awesome!”
A journey starts not with packed bags
Walking out the door
But once you are well underway
And begin to settle in