Originally published at elephant journal—7 September, 2016.
This is fun.
I’m going through some old writings in anticipation of a possible project or two, and as always, it is a fascinating adventure to chat with my former self.
And while I’m not currently in the wildest of wanderlusting phases (actually, I’m solidly planted in Costa Rica for at least another 6 months while I cultivate events and retreats here), I still think this is some pretty good advice.
For you, wanderlusters:
Hello, my name is Toby Israel, and I am an adventure addict and wanderlust junkie.
And no, I’m not sorry.
I won’t lie to you. What everyone tells you is true: you can’t run away from your issues. Nope, doesn’t work.
Every sadness, heartache, loss, fear and insecurity has trailed me down the road of my nomadic life, following my sandy footprints like unwanted travel companions. If my heart were a backpack, you could not lift it onto your shoulders, so full it is of loves and lives. These things do not simply vanish into an Instagram-ready snapshot captioned, “Let that sh*t go.” Oh, no. Did you really think it would?
Vagabonding, as I like to call it, has never solved a single problem. Not a crumbling relationship. Not a fear of heights. Not a longing for security.
Indeed, “running away” is an empty promise. Walking off into the sunset, guitar slung across your back, Sufjan Stevens illogically emanating from the empty fields—I mean, come on, I can hardly write it, it’s so cliché.
Here’s the thing: running “away” may be impossible—but beautiful, wise wanderlusters, you should run anyway.
Run as far and as hard as you can.
Run with purpose. Run with laughter. Run with mad, passionate glee.
You’ll know when it’s time to stop—or you won’t, in which case you’ll keep running.
Wandering isn’t a cure, but it is (I believe) a path.
If that path calls to you, sowing iridescent oceans and unfamiliar cobble-stoned streets in your dreams, then honor the call. (If it really calls to you though, you don’t need me or anyone to tell you that.) Wandering won’t fix you, but it could uncover your self to your self.
Would I have ever jumped off a 152-meter bridge had I not chased the magical yeti of adventure, facing a fear of heights in the process? Would I have hitchhiked 6,000 kilometers across Europe had I not answered my call and started to run? Would I have healed my heart had I ignored the balm of open skies and fresh wings—instead staying earthbound and numb in the familiar places I once called home?
Maybe. Probably not. And I’d have far fewer stories to show for it.
Sorry, but I am not sorry. I am every damn cliché you could write about the wandering millennial seeker roaming the world for years on end—and I am exquisitely filled with joy about it.
Sometimes, we have to come back, go home, stay still to “find ourselves”—but maybe, just maybe, sometimes we’re waiting to be found at the end of a bungee cord, the top of a mountain, the last hour of an 800-kilometer trail. Wouldn’t it be a shame not to go and see?
Remind me then, what is this thing I’m supposedly running away from? I cannot see it, for I am too busy testing my wings.