When I saw this quote at the beginning of Tracks, it shook my soul back to steady:
“There are new kinds of nomads, people who are at home everywhere, but who are at home nowhere. I was one of them.”
― Robyn Davidson, Desert Places
It’s not often I watch a film where I feel like I could walk straight into the screen, slide into the main character’s shoes, and follow their path as if it were my own. But this woman spoke to the root of me. She stirred something ancient in my ribs, made me stop and wonder: have I really been living my life—or just moving through it?
…People who are at home everywhere, but who are at home nowhere…
I am one of those.
I never feel out of myself, yet I never feel fully settled in. For years I thought it came from growing up as a latch key kid, always moving, always adjusting. But when I was in Europe last year, I realized it’s more than circumstance. There’s a pulse that beats in my system. It knows the steps. And when it moves, I move. It’s a rhythm I can’t deny. I don’t fight it anymore. I just follow.
I’ve been calling it inspiration. Maybe it’s deeper than that.
When people ask why I go where I go, I never have a neat answer. It’s simply a knowing. A call. It’s time. So I go.
Do I need to explain it? I don’t think so.
For a long time, I thought it meant I had an unsettled soul—that if I could just fix myself, I could finally stay put. But the truth is, I like freedom. That was what I needed to get right with.
And yet—freedom is its own paradox. Every choice has a consequence. Every consequence carries a restriction. No road is without its toll. Freedom, turns out, is its’ own illusion.
That’s the setup. That’s the deal. And still, I choose it.
Because I’d rather keep moving, even with the weight of consequence, than ever stop listening to that pulse inside me.
I’ve let it disrupt my sleeping more times than I want to admit. I have allowed that pulse to bang against other beings wants. I have, at times, synced it with the most magical moments of my life.
The pulse. Is it mine? Or is it just an echo from the earth I hear stuttering in my skin?
Is my heartbeat really mine, or am I just out on loan to something greater? And if I am, what does it want from me? Why does it hold hostage the most precious part of me, behind a cage of ribs? A cell of the self. Here to protect me, or possibly keep me from beating right out of my chest and into the freedom I so desire.
A heart. A cage. An entire earth to gamble my life on with every choice I make. It’s surprising I am still here. It’s surprising any of us are when you consider the number of things that can happen in a day.
Maybe that is why Robyn walked.
Maybe it’s why I do too.
And maybe it’s also why others don’t.
Maybe the only home I’ll ever need is the one that keeps moving.
