Adventure will always be there to inspire us and awaken our senses. It’s exciting making a trek to somewhere new wondering what it will be like — the promise of new experiences encouraging us to take that leap and give it a try.
The other piece of adventuring is returning. One day, one week, one year, however long it takes you to get back doesn’t really make that much difference. Somehow it always feels the same: a little sadness that it’s over, perhaps some thought to a future trip, and a sigh of relief when you finally walk through your door and get to curl up in your own bed once again.
Adventure takes many forms. The obvious ones you make over land and sea and the hidden ones that cross the road maps of your heart. A baby being born, setting into a new home, grieving a loss, making a new friend — they are all adventures you know, requiring taking off, finding bearings, and a willingness to adapt; to learn.
Sometimes the lines get blurred making it hard to pick out where the adventure started and where it ended. A hike that seemed insurmountable flattens out, lost luggage is returned, a breathtaking view becomes the norm — somewhere along the way stress and hardship grow into comfort.
And when you find comfort it’s easy to want to hang on to it all. To hold your breath and keep things just the way they are. But babies grow up, people move on, healing happens, and then somehow you find yourself ready to venture out once more.
Last week I was handed something special. It drifted over like a bubble on a breeze and came to rest in the palm of my hand. Inside it was only a comfortable feeling. Its happiness characterized by friends around a table and celebrating. I wanted to pocket it, to make it last, but it doesn’t work that way. So I appreciated that beautiful, fragile moment and let it drift on — making room for the next adventures and subsequent returns that wait among the winds of time.