I’m writing from a bus. I love the feeling of moving forward, always have. Just the feeling of going somewhere, of at least a little bit of unknown at the next part of the journey. The feeling also brings back other bus trips; Peru, squashed in between two people in the front of a tiny bus, watching the sparse landscape pass by in the evening glow; leaving Dresden, heart pounding having just managed to get to the OTHER bus depot across town after realizing, almost too late, that I was at the wrong one (so much for booking the station that was closer to my couchsurf…..).
But even now, travelling between two small Ontario cities, it just feels good to be moving. And reading my old blog posts. Let me tell you, it’s an odd experience, as it was certainly me writing, but sometimes I don’t recognize myself. I still love fermenting things, but I don’t have the same fervour for massaging salt into cabbage that I seemed to have before. Which has me thinking—how do we know the difference between growing away from something and when we have fallen out of step with things we enjoy?