Is it our nature to be nomadic or sedentary? Our roots seem nomadic, whether it was indigenous cultures roaming with seasons or following animal migrations; imperialistic cultures exploring or expanding beyond their lands; and even spiritually, the Israelites were exiles and wandered year after year in patience waiting for the Promised Land. But tribes discovered the three sisters (corn, beans, squash) and developed technologies to farm it. Conquests slowed as land was discovered, claimed, and owned. And the desert-searching ended with an arrival.
These days, culture seems more suited for those with roots; oak trees whose roots extend into the depths of the earths surface, allowing time to plant them more firmly and securely.
This journey has let me relax into my own nomadic tendencies. It is my nature to wander, to be curious, to explore. Finally I am home in my rootlessness. So is there a destination? Is there a time for my thin, shallow, weed-like roots to adapt, dig deeper, grow wider, nestle in a bit? And if so, can all that I am learning (slowing down, prioritizing intense quality time, being so intimately in the natural world, being bolder and braver in my own skin) on this trip adapt to such sedentary ways? Can those priorities remain, void of this approach to life?
These questions will remain, no doubt. And like most pieces of art, I put down this book for the night; thoughts unfinished, ideas left undone, questions unanswered, beauty incomplete. And I will wake with those insecurities all around me and start the day anew. Perhaps that paints the best picture of our truth as nomads. Regardless of place, our hearts, minds, and bodies pine, seek, search, and never quite settle. Some may fight this more than others, but we are restless, curious, incomplete; our job yet done. We are not home yet.