“How am I ever gonna know my home when I see it again?”
Joni Mitchell is singing on the radio. It’s two summers ago, and I’m headed south on an uncharted highway. I’m lost but feeling it in my bones that I’ll arrive where I’m supposed to, that I’ll come out of the daze of the cracked pavement and turn just in time.
—
I made it to my eventual destination, and never could find that highway again, the old road that slipped through the hills and low granite cliffs. That romance is gone, but I’m still looking for my home. I don’t recognize it in myself, or in all the people I meet. I take up a hundred hobbies and none of them seem to fit. Bewildered, I’m looking to be filled up, wandering from place to place, entranced by the dance of feeling.
There is nothing to be filled, and nothing to do the filling.
Wanderlust 