It’s no secret that I’ve moved around a lot. My dad was some kind of ADD hippie nomad who never lived in the present. Because of this, we seemed to never spend more than eight consecutive months in any given location. When I was younger, I hated this lifestyle. I never stayed anywhere long enough to make real friends. I never really got to know very many people or even explore my own talents. It was a crash course in humanity and it bred extreme selfishness. I didn’t care about people’s backstories. Their pain or joy were lost on me. Why should I care since I would most likely be moving on so soon? This is no way for a kid to grow up, trust me.
Maybe the one benefit this lifestyle gave me was perception. Now, as I’m rounding that corner to 40, I observe people every where I go. I see someone in the airport and wonder, where are they headed? Are they running to or away from someone? The most inane idiosyncrasies fascinate me, too. From the 20-something girl who had no idea where the bathroom is located on my last flight, to the woman in the Hawaiian shirt and shorts in mid-December in the airport, to the hilarity of the woman to brought steaks on the plane – they all come from somewhere. They are all headed somewhere. All I can do is observe.
I find the potential of knowing their stories very fascinating, but rarely do I speak with people when I’m traveling. I use this time as time for me. It’s the only time in my busy life that I am not able to answer a text, a call, respond to an email. When I’m on a plane, I have the most clarity.
Where do you find your quiet? Do you have a place you can go to shut out the noise? Is there a dead spot on your drive home where you relish in the fact that no one can text or call you?