Recently someone asked if we have any trips planned this autumn and we both reflexively answered no.
Then, upon reflection, we realized that Byron needs to venture out to York and Manchester, spend some time in Sweden, and pop over to Seattle. We’re both going to Spain and France. My mother will be visiting and I’ll take her on various escapades, as yet unspecified. I’m planning another stateside book tour. In fact, we travel so much that our suitcases sit half-packed at all times.
Why, then, do we both feel like we never go anywhere?
I have no definitive opinion. Although I should probably state that this itinerant existence is by no means as glamorous and thrilling as it might look from the outside.
Life doesn’t feel any different now than it ever did — and this is probably why I keep moving. I’m convinced, even with evidence to the contrary, that the next adventure will be the good bit.
This belief is of course useful when you lead a life complicated by chronic illness. If I allowed myself to remember all the reasons why I cannot move easily through the world, I would be incapacitated by fear.
The illnesses are nowhere near as difficult to manage as the frustration of living with a dysfunctional body.