I’ve just returned from a ten-day break in Italy. The country has become a firm favourite since my first visit – Sorrento and Ischia, on the Amalfi Coast – a few years ago. It’s only a couple of hours away from the UK where I live, the scenery is some of the best in the world, and the history dates back (according to a quick Google search) tens of thousands of years. This trip, I started out in the Umbrian countryside, followed by a few days in Florence – the birthplace of the Renaissance. I ate, I drank, I was merry. I couldn’t wait to come home.
Before you think me a privileged idiot, hear me out. This has no reflection whatsoever on where I was or who I was with. Italy is breathtaking. As I strolled through the medieval cobbled streets with my family, eating a sorbetto al limone; as I marvelled at Michelangelo’s “David”, I could absolutely appreciate just how lucky I am. I love to travel. To experience different cultures and attempt (butcher) the language. To wonder at the lives of those who came before me – the idea that, over 800 years ago, St Francis of Assisi could have sat in the very pew on which I perched, blows my mind.
Porziuncola – St Francis was here!
Escape
Before, when I worked a regular job, I lived for my annual holidays. Approved and limited by a workplace manager, shoehorned into somebody else’s schedule, I had them booked a year in advance. Usually, I travelled to the USA. Landing home on a Sunday afternoon, I’d be back in the office the following morning, where jet-lag would kick my ass for the rest of the week. I didn’t care. While on vacation, I could leave my real life, my many responsibilities behind. Every available annual leave day accounted for, they were rarely spent at home – that would have been a waste.
I’d pack weeks in advance. Spend hours researching the best restaurants and the must see sites.
Weeks and months of counting the days until I could escape into the part of my life I actually enjoyed, the expectation for the perfect trip was immense.
Pressure
Under such (self-imposed) pressure, I rarely relaxed. With the success of the trip resting squarely on my shoulders, I could be grumpy, uptight, and short-tempered when my companions invariably went off piste.
Still, coming home was depressing. I’d imagine myself staying put, building a new life, learning the language (much easier in America). In all of those imagined lives, I’d be a writer: rising with the sun for yoga or a run, laps in the pool, productive days spent behind a mahogany writing desk, nice meals with my family.
Love life
This trip, I packed the morning we left. We had a loose plan, which completely changed on arrival. There was only one argument (no mean feat when you’re travelling with a teenager).
We had the best time. The pace of life in the Umbrian countryside allowed me to rest my body while Florence’s impressive art scene fed my soul. The trip gave me the space to explore new writing ideas that would have otherwise eluded me. Still, I could not wait come home.
You see, I love my life.
Since I left my job four-years ago, there is no longer an urge to escape it. Now nobody is dictating my schedule, I get to sit behind my (not mahogany) writing desk until my heart’s content. I’m living my dream.
Coming home
While I was away, every Discord notification that my writer friends were online, reminded me of what I loved. What I missed. I missed writing! But more than that, I missed my routine, my regular food, my bed, my own pillow. In the last four years, I’ve curated a life for myself that makes leaving it behind difficult.
Travel is important: the change of scenery, the expansion of the mind, the rest and reset. But now, coming home no longer represents a return to ennui. Coming home means balance. It means peace. It means a return to the life that I once only dreamed of having.
When I sat down this morning and connected with my writing community, I was exactly where I was supposed to be. While I’m living my life authentically, while I’m following my purpose, while I’m chasing my dreams, there’s nowhere else I need to be.
