“Teaching children about the natural world should be treated as one of the most important events in their lives.” – Thomas Berry
“Teaching children about the natural world should be treated as one of the most important events in their lives.” – Thomas Berry
The season of Lent is upon us. In the Christian calendar, Lent represents the 40 days before Easter, but actually numbers between 44 and 46 days, depending upon whether or not it ends on Maundy Thursday (the Thursday before Easter) or Easter Saturday, and somehow the Sundays do not end up in the total. Regardless of the number, this begins the march to Easter. While not mentioned in the bible, the season of Lent represents a time of feeling and fasting, repenting and renewing. It is a ritual to reflect upon the 40 days that Jesus spent fasting, as mentioned in the book of Matthew.
I have long struggled with my faith and spirituality and religion, but finally I realize that struggling with it is my path. I am now comfortable with that endeavor and recognize that I am not alone. I struggle to find a spiritual home, but I am not homeless. I have learned that it is not easy, but maybe it means more to me in the answers I am able to uncover. In spite of the struggle, or because of it, I have always loved the season of Lent. When I was a child and belief seemed simple, I gave up chocolate most years and then gorged myself silly on Easter afternoons. Perhaps the broader messages of reflection and sacrifice did not always penetrate my childhood chocolate haze. As I grew older, I did not always keep up the traditions, but still looked forward to the late-winter season, plodding to spring and renewal, and eventually to the centerpiece of Christian belief: the resurrection of Jesus Christ.
Mardi Gras, or Fat Tuesday, is a day (or weekend) now associated with thousands of plastic beads thrown in New Orleans, but there is a long tradition of eating rich and fatty foods before the season of Lent gives way to periodic fasting and sacrifice. It is the party before the purge, if you will. It is widely believed that Lent and the traditions of ash crosses smudged onto foreheads is a Catholic tradition, but many Protestant churches continue and celebrate the tradition as well. The cross, made with ash, on the forehead, represents the rebirth and rising. We become the ashes as Genesis 3 says, “we are earth to earth, ashes to ashes, and dust to dust.” The refrain, “Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return” (Genesis 3:19) is repeated after one receives the ashes. The ashes represent our physical being, as well as the Israelite tradition of repenting in dust and ashes.In preparation for Fat Tuesday, also Shrove Tuesday, I made waffles on Sunday. Usually pancakes are served on this special Tuesday before Lent, also known as Pancake Day. Pancakes with eggs and occasionally butter and sugar, are thought to be a decadent and resplendent food. Making them before Lent is also a way to use up the rich ingredients that have collected in the larder, before the season of fasting begins. Since my pancakes tend to be uneven and spottily cooked, I opted for waffles. I figured I would be okay, since the recipes are fairly similar: flour, eggs, baking powder, salt, and a bit of melted butter. After a quick stir, I poured the batter onto the hot waffle iron. A hiss, a click, a few minutes ticked by, the steps repeated, and then glorious waffles. I made a whole batch for Sunday breakfast, leaving a few to eat on Tuesday.
I got up extra early on Tuesday, so I grabbed two waffles and ate them, cold and chewy, on the way to work. I drank coffee from my ceramic mug and enjoyed the quiet drive in the dark, before the sunrise. Tuesday was a whirlwind of teaching and checking in with my dad who endured a short hospital stay the night before. When I got home late that afternoon, I prepared for a quiet evening at home. I called my dad and we chatted for a bit and despite his recent hospitalization, I could tell he was feeling back to normal. I knew because we were able to squeeze politics into our conversation as we wondered about the Texas primaries and the Colorado party caucuses. I hung up the phone, planning to return to my room for some unearthing of objects and sorting of laundry. The phone rang again, this time it was my sister at work. We made plans to celebrate our own version of “Fat Tuesday.”
I picked up Kelly, my fellow partner in crime, and we sped to a pair of our favorite restaurants, right next door to each other. At the little Mexican restaurant, we tucked into a booth for margaritas and chips and salsa. Salt on the rims of the glasses, she ordered hers on the rocks while I requested mine frozen. Purists would laugh at my tequila blasphemy, but I love the slurp and thickness of the icy liquid (at least I know not to order a flavored marg) and the effect I cannot get grinding ice with my home blender. In my greed, I even felt the pangs of frozen-margarita-chest, similar to ice cream headaches from childhood. Fat Tuesday for sure! The chip basket empty, the glasses relieved of their salt, we paid the check and headed next door for dinner. We claimed another booth and pored over the menu, I chose flank steak, mashed potatoes, and kale with mushrooms. My sister opted for a smaller plate with a petit beef filet and steamed vegetables. She got a glass of a local brew and I ordered a glass of red wine. Dinner commenced with giggles and sharing bites of food, maybe only in the language that sisters speak. If you are one of the few who read this blog, you may be wondering at the gluttony of my sister and me with brownies a few days ago and our Oscar night hors d’oeuvres this past Sunday. Let me just say that we are feeling the effects of all the splendor and look forward to returning to a bit of normalcy and restraint.
After the evening’s food and alcohol fest, we gulped water and waited at the restaurant quite a while before driving home. In the late night darkness, sprinkles of snow turned to rain showers and the whole world smelled clean. As soon as I unlocked the door of home, I could feel the gravitational pull of bed and a book. I set my alarm, knowing that the morning ritual of ashes would come early. At five o’clock, a couple of minutes before the much-to-early-shrill, I reset the alarm for 6:15 and questioned my commitment to Ash Wednesday. I rolled over and fell quickly asleep. I woke up at 6:11, pleased I had beaten the alarm, and jumped into a green turtleneck, grey pants, and black boots. I brushed my teeth and headed out the door after a few gulps of water. My fasting day had begun. Last week, I discovered a church that was offering “drive thru ashes.” It was a little far from the office, but not much of a detour on such a special occasion. Despite my extra hour of sleep, I calculated I had time for the extra commute before the day unfolded. I squeaked in to the church parking lot with plenty of time and enjoyed a few minutes of prayer after the smiling minister shared his ashes and a benediction. I could see the smudge in the rear-view mirror and felt the trepidation of wearing the “badge” all day in public and at work, with part of my day in a school. In addition to my struggles in faith, I feel uncomfortable proclaiming my faith out loud and to others. I realized that this was part of my challenge for the day. For me to truly embrace Ash Wednesday, I needed to wear the ashes with honor and quiet dignity. I prayed for strength and courage and commitment.
Throughout the day, walking down the hall in the office, loading or unloading my car with teaching supplies, giving a science presentation to fourth and fifth graders, attending a reception for teachers and principals, and striding through the library to the study carrel to write this, I wore the ashes. Some acknowledged it, “Oh, it’s Ash Wednesday!” A co-worker (a mechanic) thought I had grease on my forehead and I just smiled. I realized it’s not a big deal, but it would have been a big deal if I did not step forward and participate.
I will sleep with this sign on my forehead and tomorrow morning in the shower the faded smudge will wash away down the drain. I, however, have been transformed, if just slightly. It’s the beginning of Lent, a time for reflecting and a time for committing to my faith, struggles and all. For me, rituals are the outside ways to get to the inside. Through the comfort and routine of ritual, we can be challenged to broaden our perspectives and seek something more meaningful.
For the season of Lent, I will be fasting on Wednesdays and Sundays. Some may not see that as pure fasting, as I will eat a small meal at the end of those days, but I will try. This is for religious purposes and spiritual purposes. It is both an action and a prayer. On Wednesdays, it is also for political purposes, in solidarity with the organization Fast for Families, “We are fasting as an act of prayer for the families that are torn apart daily by deportations and our broken immigration system.” On Sundays, it is for me, my own private act and prayer. I will also be taking part in the ritual of giving things up for Lent. The idea is that by giving up things that are pleasurable, one can reflect and remove the distractions and vices in our lives. The ideas and qualities of discipline, moderation, and strength are important to me. I feel I need this for spiritual growth and as a reminder of all that is holy. I am giving up chocolate, meat, and alcohol, which lately have been all-to-easy to rely upon to lift my mood or to treat myself. I am also giving up swearing and abstaining from junk food. In loosening the grip of these vices and bad habits, I hope to regain a balance. In some ways, I hope to go back to an earlier self. I was a strict vegetarian for years and welcome Lent to help return me to that lifestyle permanently.
Through rituals, acts of sacrifice, prayer, and reflection, I welcome Lent. I enjoy the season and community of others doing the same. I reach more deeply, I examine my struggles. I reset and do the uncomfortable work of looking within. I dust off my faith and see it in the clear light of Lent. I seek community. I look for a spiritual home. I breathe. I take a step. I reflect. I cower after making these proclamations. And then I pray.
In the five plus years since Kelly moved to Colorado, we have been roommates for almost the entire duration. We have a TV at home, but do not have any reception, and we willfully and gleefully ignore most TV programming. The TV is hooked to a DVD player, occasionally spinning in repeating rounds the discs from our combined movie collection. Online articles, the radio, and print weekend newspapers are our sources of news; we each have our favorites on a shared online video streaming account for newer movies and shows. However, sometimes TV events like the glamour of the Oscars are missed. Neither of us are big into celebrity worship, but we do love the awards shows. It is fun to see the pretty dresses and have our own sister-shorthand-running-commentary. For the last four years, she has been our ticket to these shows. In that time, we have kept up a similar tradition, usually the Golden Globes and Oscars, on the floor of a vacant room at the hotel where she works. We scarf burgers or pizza and gorge on Junior Mints and Sour Patch Kids like some do during the Super Bowl. It is a night of unhealthy food with a healthy dose of humour.
We often comment on our lack of fabulousness, but I cannot imagine there is an Oscar party out there that is as intimate and witty as ours. Or one that is as easy to clean up and clear out. If we are careful, and use the common facilities, she is able to quickly clean the room after our festivities and put it back into the vacant-clean-and-ready stage for a last-minute, late-night check-in. We go back home for the night, leaving the splendor of golden statues and formal attire for another year.
This “tradition” reminds me of our teenage years. We watched the awards shows then too, usually with a baked frozen pizza, and it was one of the few times in our childhood when our mother let us eat in front of the TV. We used to keep lists (in the days before the internet and live-blogging), tracking our predictions and the eventual winners. It is just something we do and share, like talking politics and listening to country music. I even remember a few Oscar shows in our twenties, I was in Saint Paul while she lived in Albuquerque, when we talked on the phone while watching the awards over a thousand miles apart. I think of the Oscars like touchstones. We watch them, together and growing. Soon our time as roommates will be ending. Our apartment lease is up in a few months and my sister ponders a move to another state with the possibility of a promotion. I will stay behind to work and finish school, pondering my own life changes.
No matter what, I predict that next year, we will be watching the Oscars together, either one of us visiting the other for our sisterhood tradition, or together across the miles by phone. Some events, like the Oscars, do not really matter in the day-to-day, but in the year-to-year of our sisterhood, they matter greatly. We connect, we watch, we chat, we joke. The night goes quickly in fun and frivolity and our days go by.
Sometimes, when I am tired, or hungry, or cranky, or confused, or happy, or sad, or listless, or excited, or directionless, or restless, I love to bake. In other words, baking sets me right (and left). It is one of my ways of making sense and order around me. It gives me direction, a task, a reason. I flick on the oven, search for a battered and batter-covered recipe card, and reach for ingredients. I measure and pour, sift and stir, level and beat. Depending upon the mood and the recipe, the time in the kitchen can be full of labor or just a dash of effort. Sometimes I ponder a dilemma while I work bread dough. Other times I create routine with Sunday morning blueberry muffins. Corn bread brings me back to the wonder of sustenance and memories of my grandparents. Chocolate chip cookies bring smiles and the smells of my mother’s kitchen. New recipes challenge me and old recipes return me to other places, kitchens, and memories like no time travel machine ever could.
I am not the most talented or patient baker. Sometimes my dream life interferes with my baking life and I end up with slightly burned or over-beaten creations. I am a passionate baker, if neither imaginative nor original. Occasionally, I reach out for new and different baking adventures, but usually I tend to favor a few recipes that are flour-covered and fastened into my memory, that have become part of my being. Sometimes an old reliable does the trick. Sometimes that is brownies. When I want maximum enjoyment and minimum effort, with a warm pan of deliciousness to share or to sustain me through lunches and desserts for a week, I reach for my old brownie recipe. I do not know or remember the exact origin of the recipe, but I know the recipe card goes back to when I wrote reliably in cursive. “Brownies” is written in my teenage script, which has not been seen since my first year of college. I think I copied the recipe from some card in my grandmother’s recipe box, although I am sure that it was not original to her.
It is simple and sweet. Flour, sugar, cocoa powder, butter, vanilla, eggs, a bit of salt, and sometimes nuts if I have them. The original calls for oleo, but I have only ever used butter. A healthy recipe this is not, but it is soothing and magical and restorative.
I can assemble the ingredients rather quickly. A little mixing, the satisfying cracking of two eggs. It is better if I remember to leave the eggs and butter out early and bring them to room temperature. It is best if the butter is somewhat melted. The oven preheats quickly while the ancient-but-not-antique glass baking dish gets coated in the remaining melty bits of butter from the stick wrapper. The rubber spatula, like a magic wand, smooths out the light brown batter, while the spatula wielder smooths out her soul. The recipe calls for just a little clean up, one dirty bowl.
Twenty minutes in the oven can seem like an eternity, but while the scents waft in the air it is just enough time to wash the bowl, spatula, measuring cup, and ring of measuring spoons. A kettle of hot water hisses in the background. Preparations for tea and coffee begin. The butter knife waits in anticipation.
My sister and I sit down. The square glass pan is between us. Coffee, tea, and milk are poured. A square of brownie is cut. Details of the day are shared.
Baking brings me closer to others. Baking and sharing make me human. Baking and sharing keep me human. I remember who I am and dream of who I want to be. Sometimes the difference between the two is not so far apart. I can see that on the three-inch-by-five-inch card, scribbled in my 17-year-old bubble cursive and printed letters. I cover the brownies, brush up the crumbs, and savor the taste. Love and life are sometimes measured in crumbs and conversations.
“The fiery moments of a passionate experience are moments of wholeness and totality. . .”– Anais Nin
There are no prospects of romantic love, at least that I can see in the forecast for my heart, but that is okay. I love my life as it is, and know that it is best to be thankful for what I have, instead of building hopes upon something that is not there. I spent the day in the frenzied company of fifth graders. There was a collective sugar high and aura of young love amongst those ten and eleven-year-olds. How fragile and strong those young hearts are!
This is how I am spending Valentine’s Day.
1. Taking time to tell people I care about them. It does not have to be an expensive floral display of affection. Today it is smiling at the gas station attendant, giving an extra tip to my favorite coffee person, and letting someone cut in line. Later tonight I am going home to construction paper, glue, scissors, and markers. I am making valentines for those I love, miss, and treasure. Sure it would be great if they had received them today, but I like the idea that I am making them and sending them out on the day of love, so they will receive them on an ordinary Wednesday or Saturday.
2. Faking it until I am making it. Today was a rough day of teaching. I could blame it on the holiday and the fact that all those funny fifth graders were looking forward to classroom parties and the long weekend. While that might have had something to do with it, a lot of it was me. I just did not have my groove. Some days sail by in the euphoria of knowing that I get to use my talents and gifts at work. Today, I felt neither gifted nor talented, but I smiled and faked it. Pretty soon, the day got better. I never used to believe that if you talked with a smile on your face, it would change your mood, but it really does. I faked at being a good teacher. I pretended to be excited. After a while, I could not tell what was fake and what was real. Maybe that is the point. I learn more from the days that are difficult and muddling, and today was one full of learning. Sometimes, it is good to have one of these days for perspective. It helps to be shaken out of the cobwebs, to really listen and pay attention.
3. Meeting deadlines and goals (even if it is by the skin of my teeth). Today was the deadline for my town library’s anthology of local writing. Last year, I was excited to have an essay published in the volume. It was a boost to my confidence and quite thrilling to find my name and writing in a real book. The year before, I submitted an essay which was not selected; that year, I celebrated meeting the deadline. This year, I had plans to submit several pieces (possibly hedging my bets with five submissions, in the hopes that one will be picked). The submission process is not complicated, but writing must be submitted in person on CD (or thumb drive) with an accompanying paper form. Somehow, I figured the library would have plenty of copies of the form on the last day, as the brochure holder has been stuffed full each week when I visit the library. I screeched into the library ten minutes before it was time to close, heart pounding when I discovered they no longer had any forms. The library attendant found the library director to see if she had any extras. The library director sweetly scooted me into her office and made copies of the form, waiting patiently as I scribbled my name, address, and titles, so I could submit each piece. I could not thank her profusely enough. I left the library at 5:06, more in love with librarians and libraries than ever before. I submitted two essays, two short stories, and a poem. I am proud for following through and trying. I breathe a sigh of relief that I made it. Someday, I will stay late and long for someone who needs a favor from a stranger.
4. Finding refuge in silence and solitude. After what feels like a long and crazy day, I need to recharge and refresh. I had an invitation to join my dad, stepmom, and sister for dinner, but declined. I am celebrating anonymously and alone with a special cup of coffee in a spot of the world that does not seem to care that it is the day of romance. Some might find that rude and selfish. Perhaps, I am. However, I also know that I am not good company tonight. I am a very devout introvert with a job that requires me to be a devoted extrovert, teaching all day. The only way I can keep up with this wonderful job I love is to spend time alone, so I can replenish my soul and energy. Tonight, I am a bit irritable and edgy and need time alone to become myself again. I will make a special dinner next week and invite my jilted, sweet valentines over for a celebration of February. In past years, I would have gone to the dinner, bringing along my exhaustion and exasperation. Now, I know better. My next step (a big growth is needed here) is to accept the invitation and to delight in the love and company, no matter my mood, and to provide the same delight, love, and company for others. This sometime curmudgeon has much to learn and much room to grow.
Happy Valentine’s Day! I hope this finds your heart healthy and your spirit thriving. Find love, however small, for something, someone, some cause, and celebrate it.
Earlier in the week, I wrote about my lovely, lifelong affliction of wanderlust. There are lots of ways to nurture it and indulge in it. Currently, I plan trips (some that I may not take for years) and schedule time to reunite with old friends.
For my own wanderlust, I just requested a brochure from the Santa Barbara, California visitor’s office. I made reservations (which I can cancel) for two nights at a cheap motel near the beach. I have an e-mail alert for cheap flights from Denver. When I shower, I dream of ocean waves.
I work out an itinerary to see close friends for a long weekend in Washington, D.C. I am getting in touch, enjoying the time to chat, even if the trip will not come to fruition this year.
I plan a cross-country road trip, marking up an old AAA map in blue ink, highlighting what William Least Heat-Moon calls the “blue highways.” I draw stars and circles on the maps where friends and family live, measuring with string the miles and time, lost in dreams.
I read Willa Cather novels and a book of her short stories, with the idea of a weekend trip to Red Cloud, Nebraska. I was there for two hours last spring, but figure a few days in the prairie lands that inspired a literary master might be my own escape.
I dream of a trip to walk the Camino de Santiago in Spain. It will mostly likely be a couple of years before I go, but I practice my halting Spanish and I check out guidebooks from the library. I dream of connecting and seeking.
I plot a trip to Pueblo, Colorado. This used to be the halfway stop between my parents’ lives, when my sister and I were shuttled between homes on school breaks and summer trips. Now, I want to explore the city as a tourist, to see and enjoy the sights and discover what I have ignored in all the years of pit stops.
I devise a trip to eastern Colorado to explore grasslands and to see dinosaur tracks. I figure out where to plant my tent and this spring or summer, I will step into the tracks of giants, feeling small and excited.
I ponder a road trip to and through Texas. It has been years since I have visited and there are lots of friends and family who live in that big ol’ state. It would be fun to visit a “whole other country.”
I make an appointment with an ex, a person whom I still love as a friend. I am grateful that we can meet up and catch up. Together we know that we made a good decision to date for two-and-a-half years. We also made a good decision to break up, but still remain in each other’s lives.
I schedule a visit to my hometown of Springer, New Mexico. It has been over a year since I last visited. I have a friend living there who is a bit down in the dumps, trying to figure out future directions. Maybe I can be someone’s sunshine. Either way, it will be fun to go to breakfast and have a real live encounter, instead of an online chat.
Dreaming. Doing. It’s all there.
I have a serious case of wanderlust (plus it is one of my very favorite words). Friends and family members would argue that this is not a recent phenomenon for me, but more of a lifelong affliction. Luckily, even if it is terminal, I embrace it fully, although finding a cure or treatment can be tricky. Some folks with wanderlust become lifelong wanderers. They make the symptoms part of the cure; instead of fighting it, they feed it. They travel frequently, change jobs accordingly, and never tie themselves down to things like home mortgages. Others reserve their wanderlust for their art or dreams. I know a very grounded artist whose flights of fancy show up in her landscape paintings and sculpture pieces. Some find that wanderlust is tempered by age and responsibility. I have several friends who were traveling musicians, seasonal park rangers, or odd job wizards in their twenties to accentuate their wanderlust. Now in their thirties and forties, these friends with children sow their wild oats into gardens and go on adventures to let the little ones fly.
Despite my lifetime of wanderlust, I have lived a pretty basic and grounded life. My wanderlust has worked its way into my dreaming, reading, talking, if not into my own wandering. I did choose a college in a fit of optimism and adventure, the blue and green stationery letterhead tempted me from New Mexico to the southern shores of Lake Superior in Wisconsin for what I like to call “four years of water and winter.” The second semester of junior year, when wanderlust dreams for many college students turn into study abroad adventures, I opted for a semester in Montana, eager to return to my beloved West while exploring a new place. In “adult” life, I lived for six years in the Twin Cities. Now I find myself almost a decade later in Colorado, carefully planted in community. I am eager to stretch my wings and wander, but it’s not quite time to fly. I am laying the groundwork to cut loose, but I am not quite ready.
If you have a case of wanderlust, brought on by the cold, the blahs of midwinter, or something else, here are my recommendations. Let’s call it a prescription without the medication.
1. Plan that dream trip. You might not be able to take a year’s long journey abroad, but you can plan one. Pore over maps and travel books. Read travel essays. Plan an itinerary, however loosely, to include the sites and the experiences that you will savor. If your budget is stretched so tight that buying vegetables for the week seems impossible, your library card can liberate you to another land. Pick your favorite vacation spot and request the travel packet with glossy brochures and maps. Even if it is years before you will have the money or time or gumption to make the jump, you can dream and plan and discover. Anticipation is just as important as adventure, and can nurture your heart, while you are dealing with the practical things like a drumming down a work deadline, caring for an aging parent, and chasing after a toddler learning to walk.
2. Hatch a small escape. Maybe this is a weekend trip to a town you ignore because it’s on-the-way to somewhere else. Maybe it means spending the night in a cheap motel on a weeknight, for the pleasure of someone else making the bed and the thrill of a midweek adventure. Maybe it is an overnight camping trip to the state park, where you have often hiked in daylight, but have never glimpsed in the shrouds of darkness. Maybe it’s a day in your town, visiting a new coffee shop, restaurant, art gallery, and ending with a dinner you make at home, trying a brand new recipe. Maybe it’s taking all the sheets, all the blankets, and all the pillows and building the best bed fort ever! Enjoy the escape and seize the opportunity for more.
3. Change your route. This might seem like it would not do much, but I have been surprised at how taking an alternative route home mixes up my day into a wonderful sense of momentum. Instead of being in a rut, seeing the same-old, same-old, I am inspired. See how changing a block or two, to glimpse a new-to-me house, a new-to-me garden, or an oft-ignored park can be bliss. The sun shines differently in a new space, the sunset changes from a new vantage point. My automatic pilot is replaced with my inner adventurer as I take a left instead of a right. I was reminded of this most recently when my work office moved 1.5 miles to a new building and site. It’s still in the same part of town, but it has completely changed my morning drive, because I can take the back road, instead of the highway. I drive slower and look longer, grateful for the small change that has given me a new corner of the world to glimpse.
4. Get or renew a passport. If foreign travel is your dream, start with the first and most tangible step. Get the ball rolling. Once you have that passport, a whimsical weekend in Paris, a mystical month in Morocco, or a changing year in China is no longer out of the question.
5.Visit a friend. Think of a person whom you miss, perhaps someone you haven’t talked to in years. Look them up on social media or find a common acquaintance who knows where they are. Make a call, send an e-mail, write a letter, or, perhaps, schedule a visit. Travel back in time and remember who you were and think of who you are. Remember how this person shaped you or gave you freedom or made you laugh. Ask them how they are. We are time travelers in our memories and an old friend can be the compass that gets you to that spot. Be grateful if you are able to renew and reconnect, but even if you don’t, be grateful for that person for the time you knew them. Wander around in your roots and savor what was and then look forward to bask in a new direction. Recently, I have reconnected with old friends online. I am finding ways to bring that into the present, into a real connection.
6. Go out and get wild. Remember the call of geese, watch the squirrels, listen to the cackling crows. Find the wild, no matter how far in the city you are, and join it. Our wanderlust comes from forgetting that we too are wild beings and we need to feel unleashed and untethered. Take a walk and remember a life, an existence without screens. Breathe and take in your silence.
Enjoy your wanderlust. Do not fight it. Treasure it. Nurture it.