I’m nearing the end of my journey and have been considering a few of the things that I heard before I left. 

   I am not lost. There are times, I suppose, when someone might have said that I had lost my moral compass, or my sanity, and they would have been right. I think the truth is that I am too much with myself and become self-centered, so much so that my navel becomes tired of being contemplated and says, buzz off lady, find something else to focus on. Travel is actually about losing myself, assuaging the restlessness that frustrates me, and stretching my experience. It’s safe to assume that I will find out more about myself. But I know where I am. I have not lost myself, as much as I try. If I’m off to find anything, it is how others live, what others think, why some people “say g’day” and others say “how ya goin’?”.   I don’t find myself somewhere else. Where would I be in the meantime?

   Oh, fiddlesticks. God save me from inspirational quotes andposters. Those of us who complain about a sound-bite culture have no business quoting aphorisms, or quoting anything out of context, or passing along dross.  I’m here, so this is my destination.  A journey? Well, consider that ‘there’ is much the same as ‘here,’ and when you get ‘there,’ it’s just a new ‘here.’ So you’re always ‘here.’  At the destination. Life is here now. Sorry.

   We’ve gone over this before. Stop it.

   Yes. Alone. I was married to a man who couldn’t have been less interested in going anywhere other than where he was. I, on the other hand, was always wanting to go somewhere and do something, which could be seen either as having a short attention span or as a healthy curiosity about the world around me and how I might fit into it. It became clear that if I was going to go anywhere, even places that he said he would go with me, I would be going alone. Neither is right or wrong. They just don’t match. Going somewhere alone feels better when I am actually alone wishing someone else wanted to be with me.

   That is not an either/or question. I’m always writing. But don’t always have a publisher lined up before I write something. If having a publisher lined up was a prerequisite for writing, we’d have very little to read. Writers write just because they’re made that way. Canadian author Robertson Davies explores the idea of what is an artist in several of his books. Right now I’m reading “Leaven of Malice,” where the character Humphrey Cobbler, an organist, points out that singers are not necessarily musicians – they just sing. And they sing because they’re made that way. They don’t necessarily sing great material or have musical taste (as Taylor Swift and those who buy her recordings demonstrate). Not all writers have taste or write well (as we can gather from perusing just about any bestseller list).  But writers write. Period.

   Am I looking for material for new writing? Sure. Always. Will I submit writing that originates on this trip? Sure. Will I be inspired with a Big Idea while I’m traveling? I sure hope so. I’m open to Big Ideas any old time.

   This was offered by my first hostel roommate Scott as he left, wishing me health and happy trails. He’s one for three right now; I am sick. But I haven’t fallen in love even once, unless you count falling in love with Melbourne, but I think he meant a person or two. And so far (knock on wood, light a candle, sacrifice a virgin chicken) I haven’t lost any identification or other key piece of anything. Except that manicure scissors that was confiscated upon my arrival in Brisbane. Happily, when I got sick I was in civilization, or at least Auckland, and a kind doctor made time to see me hours before I flew off to Queenstown.

   Things are good. Life is good. The antibiotics are working, and more than that I cannot ask for right now. I’m a lucky girl.

   More to come on New Zealand. It’s ain’t over yet.