For the first time in my traveling life, [eight plus years] I have no trips planned. I'm not going anywhere. I'm here. In one place. The city where I was born. In a house where I lived all my life.
And yet, I'm getting ready to leave in a different way than any of my travels. I'm moving out on my own. Moving is totally different from moving out. But I think I'll be fine.
This attachment is nearly detached. The beauty of it all is that, while it's a last necessary snap of the thread, it's been coming for so long that I'm prepared. All of my travels have helped the coming home be so much more meaningful. And as I continue on a parallel [but no longer the same] path with those I love the most, I've been thinking a lot about journeys.
I traveled in so many ways this summer: by plane, train, car, boat, bus, subway, and sidewalk.
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