I love travel. It is not the over-all "grand adventure" of travel which touches my soul, though, but rather; the many little moments which make it up. The overall adventure often overwhelms me in its thought and tires me in its actuality. But the moments of it come as solid little gemstones I collect carefully and treasure--not to hoard, but to love; that is, to share and to admire and to allow their beauty to enrich the world I bring them into.
As I write this (first on paper, in fact), I sit on an old lobstering dock, which now houses a charming fresh lobster restaurant. "Lobster in the rough," a woman told of it. I have no recollection of actually eating lobster before this. Now I shall have fresh lobster and mussels with a side of corn, sitting at a wooden table the colour of honey, watching the fishing boats, as the cool breeze plays with my hat and teases my hair. I am content.
These boats look like those of my childhood, and the crush and hush of the water is the undercurrent of all my early memories. (Note I do not say "formative" memories. I like to believe that every moment of my life is formative to all the rest of it.)
Only a week ago, I was just returned from a trip to the Pacific coast. Now I have spent my morning on the East coast. Literally. And I remember, this is the world I love. The world of moments which we ourselves determine how to string together, to weave into our story.