I went to Europe because I was searching for something. Europe wasn’t necessary; somewhere was. Europe happened to be my somewhere. I was just searching. I had been searching for a long time. I thought I might find it, whatever it was, once I got to wherever I was headed. I searched for a month in Europe, and then longer. I couldn’t seem to find it, whatever it was. I found other things, things I expected to find, like new places, with beautiful buildings and interesting history and wonderful people. I found unexpected things, too, like understanding, confusion, sadness, joy. But I never found what I was originally looking for. So I went home.
Home again, home for the holidays, back where I started. It seemed, at first, like nothing had changed, like I had never left. But I was different. I am different. I think, afterall, that I found something. I never knew what it was exactly that I thought I was looking for. But that doesn’t matter, because I managed to find it anyway. I found it. I know now that what I was looking for exists. That it’s out there. That I can go find it again.
What did I find? I call it “acceptance”. Acceptance of the journey. I’ll never know exactly where I’m headed. I think that’s for the best. At least for me. And it’s ok. It’s fine. It’s life. It’s beautiful. It’s a winding journey.