In the sleep stolen between the sound of my alarm and Tetley’s barking, I dreamt I was traveling somewhere in Europe. The place is less important than the feeling conjured by the dream.
The weather was cool. I was moving on from a little pensione where I knew no-one, to another place and had little heart for it. What I wanted was to be home, to actually have such a place. Living without schedule or purpose beyond being somewhere and then only to go to yet another place – only an observer of other people’s lives – in both my dream and memory, I recall how exhausting and lonely this exercise often was.
On the road, it was home I longed for – a home I did not have. Instead, I kept moving on, traveling to another exotic place hoping to find my place. That somewhere, I would discover a reason to stay.
From the recesses of my unconscious, I am reminded of these times and thus, to savor my present. These days are so busy with external demands, I long for unscheduled, contemplative hours until the dream reminds me that what I desired so many years and miles ago is here: I am home.