Wandering

My friend Aaron on a winter wander

All that is gold does not glitter,

Not all those who wander are lost;

The old that is strong does not wither,

Deep roots are not reached by the frost.

From the ashes a fire shall be woken,

A light from the shadows shall spring;

Renewed shall be blade that was broken,

The crownless again shall be king.

Tolkien, J. R. R. (1954), The Fellowship of the Ring, The Lord of the Rings, Boston: Houghton Mifflin (published 1987), "Strider", ISBN 0-395-08254-4 (from Wikipedia)

I used to see the second line of this poem on bumper stickers attached to the kind of cars that today might sport a "COEXIST" slogan with the letters made up of various spiritual and religious symbols from around the world.  Though emblematic of certain points in my life, the idea that I, or anyone else, might wander for a purpose has never left me alone.  It must be in my blood, and the keen resonance of Tolkien's words a tribute to ancestors whose paths merged from many parts of the world to make me.

I resist change.  Despite the birthright of wanderlust, once I get used to comfortable, familiar surroundings, I find myself spending long, sleepless nights worrying about how I can hold together whatever straw house I've managed to piece together against the hungry wolves of a world not made to revolve around me.  It amazes me the lengths to which I sometimes go to defend hastily-made decisions against the light a new day brings.  I take unwarranted ownership of things not meant to be mine forever, like relationships, places, and ideas.  When I subsequently have to let them go, my other instinct kicks in to save me: I wander.  I don't apologize for this.  When asked by strangers to explain my wanderings, I gladly tell the story of my adventures.  Should this lead them to conclude that I have lost my way, or that my travels have gained me nothing of value, that is their business from which to profit or lose as they may.