The dusty traveller

So you may ask: what is it like to be a nomad and live out of a suitcase while travelling around the world? Well it has its downside but this is small compared to the benefits of a life of adventure.
It's not for everyone of course: travelling alone with just a camera, laptop and suitcase is mostly a solitary existence, so you really do have to like and enjoy your own company, or living in hotel rooms would be an ordeal. But for those who don't want to live in any one place for long, hotels are like old friends, and travelling is an adventure where you never know what will turn up over the next horizon.

You don't have roots, those roots you start out with fall away after a time and you find there really isn't anything to go back to that calls you very much, and life is a living in the now where everything is a passing. You have to let go. If you hang on to anything it becomes a weight that pulls on you and slows you down; being attached can and usually does cause sorrow, so letting go of things when it is time to lets everything flow, and new things can come and be received with an open heart rather than one cluttered up with things that no longer serve and that should be left in the past.
I'm not a Buddhist or a spiritualist, or anything else. I don't want to become anything, but rather I want to un-become and just be, and so for me a life of travel is perfect.

And what do I do with a camera? I go in search of beauty wherever I can find it.
Sometimes I wake up in the morning and have no idea where I am, and still don't even when I remember the name of the place I went to sleep in. For me, this is a good time to go inside and meditate.
This is when I can find my real home, and then the outside becomes a garden or playground to play in.
Authorities don't care for this sort of thing. In their eyes it is not playing the game, and it's suspicious. Such an individual might give others ideas, and so they invariably move you on. But it is not too hard to disguise yourself as a tourist or a backpacker.

It is strange to find so much of the world owned, when it really belongs to all of us, and none of us: we're only here briefly, and from nothing we come and to nothing we go, and we take nothing with us when we leave, so how can anything belong to anyone if we all can't take it with us when we go? It's just a concept; someone has a piece of paper that says: this is mine, and everyone agrees that that is so, and so it becomes so. Everyone agrees that money has a value, and so it is so; paper concepts that everyone agrees to follow.
You may ask: is there a home in a house? Is there a house in a home? There is one home that is not a house of bricks and money can't buy it.

And now by the New Jersey shoreline where the lines fall away too fast, and all is said and done, to move on once more to the next place; carry this then until the turnings are no more.
Bradley beach, where the summer was too hot and the winter too cold, and the doing is the repairs after the storm; and I am reminded of Dylan's one more cup of coffee, and The Eagles: Desperado, but never mind, the nightly walks along the beach where I saw so many wonders: the double rainbow that invited like a doorway to heaven; the UFO that suddenly disappeared, a shooting star that sped across the sky; the amazing book of life to talk of love under the myriad stars where the full moon beckons with its magic, where I find myself once more. A passing line in history where for a brief moment I got to dance with the joy that is my love.
Images from Pixabay
Storey by me