Call it the jet lag, if you will, but thinking about it keeps me awake. Something about traveling always feels so surreal.
It’s outer body; as soon as you land and realize you don’t quite belong; you don’t quite blend into the way their culture was taught and practiced and learned over the centuries; that you hadn’t quite been through or understood what made them the full shape of human beings that call this land home—all together identical and alien to you in their complexity; it feels like you’re in a dream. A made-up land of enchantment that is fleeting from your life, soon to evaporate and impossible to keep a hold of.
But you try. You take pictures. You talk to strangers. You order the unknown. You purposely get lost. And you remind yourself every step of the way that the journey is the destination.
I remember distinctly, on day one or two, feeling that everything around me was so temporal, my own breaths signifying the tick of minutes as it pushed me closer and closer to my departure and return to the expected and the familiar.
It’s realizations like that that remind you to savor every morsel of a moment you have, here, there, or anywhere. When there’s a sizzling plate of food in front of you, it makes it all the more enjoyable and meditative to be allowed to just sit and actively savor the time you have, in the place you are. Getting to choose how you spend that time; with who and what and where fills you up to the brim with nothing else but vibrant, uncut, sensations of gratitude, is the greatest gift in life you can get.
Time, on your own terms.
>>>Take the journey through Morocco<<<
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