To step onto land unfamiliar is to invoke a kind of magic.
It’s a magic of expansion—of the mind, of the spirit, of the air in my lungs too long compressed by stillness. It’s a magic of discovery, of anticipation.
It’s a magic of hope.
As I step onto that land, I pause, feeling for the ground with more than just my feet. I feel for the foreign air—how it brushes against my skin, lifts my hair into unrestrained curls, and bears the scents of other spices, other lives. I feel for the strange way the sun slants in this part of the world and for the promises the clouds paint across this new sweep of sky. I search for unfamiliar constellations and the gods who spawned them.
Amid the hustle and noise of travel—the lugging of bags, the stamping of passports, the P.A. announcements of destinations not yet mine—I find something within me is already searching for the stories of this place. Its history calls to me. The deep currents of its music begin to hum in my blood. The vibrant colors of its art infuse me with bright notions.
I find faces that light up with joys, darken with remembered wrongs.
Those faces bring me stories.
The land, the sea, the sky—they all bring me stories.
The stories envelope me, testing me, whispering of horizons I didn’t know I missed.
I fling open my arms and welcome their magic into the dust-covered corners of my soul. Then I pick up my bag and take the next step.
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