roam and rove

There's thunder in the distance and I feel the wind moving in. The window next to my desk is open as it most always is. The paper flowers that swag in front of the window -- the green faded to almost gray, the reds and oranges still bright, the yellow turned now to white -- remind me of being in New York City several years ago, ducking into a gift shop and sifting.

Today I feel like being anywhere but here. Could I be where the storm is coming from? Could I be where these flowers are made? There's nothing particularly wrong with being here. It's beautiful, in fact. It's quiet and I love the sound of the storm coming. But, today, I miss the feeling of going, the anticipation of something unknown, possibly wonderful and soul-stirring, before you. I'm aching to leave.

For me, that's the best and worst thing about traveling: the ideas and realities of leaving and arriving. Whenever I leave some place, all of the sudden that place is the most beautiful, most beloved place in the world. But so is the place I'm going to. It's the in between, maybe that I love the most. A sentimental anticipation. Yes, maybe it's the unknown that I miss. The surprise. The suspense.

This morning I was perched cross legged on my blue yoga mat. I go there on Tuesday and Thursday mornings when I can swing an hour away. Allison instructed us. Be content, she said. Be content where you are, in the moment, in your breath, in the space you reside. Let go of expectations. That's funny, I thought. So I sat there, breathing, moving through the asanas. But, somehow, instead of showing me how content I am, it showed me my malcontent, pointed to the places inside where contentment hasn't shown its face in years.

The thunder is closer. The sky is getting darker and I hear rain on the leaves.