This past weekend —Sunday morning to be more exact, I woke around 6:30am. I’m typically an early riser, but normally my internal alarm clock doesn’t pull me from a calming weekend sleep until upwards of 8:00am. If I’m lucky, I can sleep in til 9:30.
But this morning, that Sunday morning, I woke up knowing that this 6:30am wake up call was happening for a reason. I was well rested, despite a busy weekend and more alert than anyone should be at that hour.
I fought my awakeness for an hour or so, scrolling through the tweets and instagrams that I’d missed in the hours that I’d been asleep. Finally around 7:30, I pulled myself out of bed and started getting ready for the day. Something inside me told me that today, I was escaping, getting out of any plans or routines I’d already set in my mind (which weren’t many —to clean my apartment and wash a load or two of laundry). I didn’t fight it. I got dressed, readied a backpack with my laptop, necessary chargers and a journal and headed out the door, unsure of exactly where I was going.
A quick subway ride delivered me (yes, delivered) to one of my favorite cafe and espresso bars where I ate a great breakfast sandwich and caffeinated via a well cold-brewed iced coffee. I stayed there for a few hours, making conversation with the baristas about best brewing practices and equipment, blogging and people watching while getting myself in order. Something about being out in the world, out in that place, was putting something back into me that I hadn’t even realized was lacking until it began replenishing itself.
A few hours and post edits later, I was getting the pull again. And again, I didn’t fight it.
I packed up, once again unsure of exactly where I was going, but ready and willing to be delivered again, nonetheless.
I took an almost hour-long, 2.5 mile walk from where I stood to an art museum on the opposite side of the city. It was hot out, but there was a breeze offering mild relief and some unexplainable force of energy that kept me from turning back and heading home. Destination reached. I explored, put myself into the imagined and intended scenarios of the subjects of thousands of years worth of art and enjoyed just being where I was.
I walked out of the museum, and sat outside in a shady spot on the steps and looked out at the city. It didn’t take long before I realized that I was crying —over many things I’m sure. Pinpointing the issue didn’t seem to be the purpose of the moment. When I stood up, I felt lighter; without every realizing that prior, I was feeling weighed down.
When I finally ventured back towards my apartment, there was new found peace that came over me as a result of the lightness. Hours had past. I was aware of myself, and the space around me and the minutes and seconds.
Often, I would read the quote not all who wander are lost and never really connect. It seemed like a incomplete phrase, like words were missing to connect the thought to some deeper intended meaning. Now, after the quiet, I understand.
Not all who wander are lost.