It is a good evening. It isn’t raining but the clouds are full of tease. There is no planned destination, and we aren’t really thinking about the lack of one. Perhaps there is a vague sense, where we would reach; it is the journey which has preoccupied our senses, all the while.
Curving through the folds of the hills, we drive through the beauty that is on offer, without condition, without agenda. Here a beautiful flower, there a wise tree. A naughty stream and some sweet chirping. Over the sagely hill, looking at the inscrutable sea below. Beckoning. Hearts full of joy, minds free from everyday shackles, we move. This is the life we had always imagined.
And, then without warning, it comes upon us. There is no destination.
When we don’t know if there was destination or not, the journey is wondrous; the vague, cloudy, unknown sense of the destination is enough to power the journey, directionless, though it may seem. The realisation that there is no destination, however, takes the life out of the journey.
I often wonder if a journey is an orphan without a destination. I have written about this often, and I have yet to discover.
Can a journey be a destination?