Every time I am at an airport and have some time in transit between flights thats exactly how I feel: Detached.
I can explain it like this: I’ve once written a short story to capture the essence of wild things. In the story the main character comes upon a helpless bird on her way home in the pouring rain. If the bird is hurt or if it’s wings are simply to soaked to let it rise into the air again isn’t said. Either way she takes the bird home with her, carefully arranging a dry and warm nest for it. And from that evening on while the bird recovers she always leaves the window a crack open. Incidentally one morning the window is open and the bird is gone. Wild things stay wild. What I did not write was the pointe: Sooner or later the bird will come back. Even without her noticing, just checking in. Because if you give someone security and safety without taking away their freedom they will always, always come back.
So when I am sitting in one of these uncomfortable plastic rows obligatory in front of every nameless gate I feel like that: The window is open, the air outside smells fresh and moist: it’s time to spread my wings again.
Travelling for me is not only beautiful, it’s essential for me to be able to continue growing as it puts things into perspective like nothing else. I always encounter challenges that I would never stumble upon in the routine and well known life home.
So, let’s put things into perspective again, shall we?