J M White

J. M. White The moon journeys around the earth, the earth around the sun, so it has been for as long as humans have inhabited this globe. The seasons wander on their rounds. And now this weary traveler looks out upon the world where every day is its own journey, as is each life and so, as Basho poignantly tells us, “the journey itself is home”. We prepare, such as we can, take what we think is needed, and set out. Some never return. The journey is dangerous, filled with peril. We venture into far-flung places where we walk on narrow rocky paths, peer into deep precipices, journey near the edge and at each moment the end is near, nearer than we dare to think. When I return from the latest adventure I throw open the windows, air out the house and settle at my desk. Yet, when I am sitting at home I watch the clouds windblown across the sky, or hear the whistle of the train, lonesome in the distance, and it draws me to the dream of wandering. Before long I feel the tug of some invisible force and know it is time to pack my bags and continue on this journey. I assemble my papers, prepare my manuscripts, and find a blank journal. It’s time to go.