Wednesday, January 22, 2014


I want to travel.

I want to go to wander around England, run my hand over the old stones in Oxford, and I want to slip into that old pub that once held the minds that birthed Narnia and Middle earth. I want to stand on the cliffs Ireland and watch the waves crash hundreds of feet below me, I want to dance on Prince Edward Island and see that red road that might just lead to Avonlea, I want to stand at the shores of Chincoteague and watch the ponies surging through the water for their penning day, I want to run up and hug an ancient red wood and drive along the Pacific highway, I want to travel to China and explore all the little corners that exist in even the biggest places, I want to go to Scotland and Norway, I want to go to Venice before it sinks and I want to go to the Parthenon in Rome.

Then there's Russia and India and Jerusalem and Uganda and Ethiopia and South America and the rest of this big but small beautiful world we live it.

I want to go to places where the wood is so steeped in history that it leaks out of the walls. I want to run my hands over stones that hold stories that no one on earth knows. 

Some days I just want to go.

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