As usual, Joy and I began the first day of our journey convinced that we were completely unprepared.

This happens every time.

It doesn’t seem to matter whether the trip has been planned for months or whether the suitcases have been packed for days. Somehow, on the morning of departure, there is always one more thing to do, one more detail to check, one more reason to delay leaving the driveway.

I have never quite understood why.

Recently, while wrestling with these thoughts, I was reminded of a scene from Scott Douglas’s play Strange Angels.

Kar-ul, an angel of somewhat unconventional methods, has just delivered a message to Joe by smacking him on the head.

“What does it mean?” Joe asks.

“I think it means you’re going to die,” replies Kar-ul.

Joe shrugs.

“I know I’m going to die. We’re all going to die sometime.”

To which Kar-ul responds:

“You don’t live like you’re going to die.”

The line has stayed with me over the years.

As Joy and I prepared to leave home for another trip, it occurred to me that perhaps we are a little like Joe.

Not because we fear dying.

Because we are reluctant to leave.

After all, home is a wonderful place.

Home contains familiar routines.

Friends.

Family.

Favourite chairs.

Comfortable beds.

Coffee cups that know exactly where they belong.

Home asks very little of us beyond being present.

Travel, on the other hand, requires something different.

Travel asks us to step away from what is known.

To embrace inconvenience.

To trust that what awaits us is worth the disruption.

When I shared this thought with Joy, we realized something important.

The truth is that we are almost always prepared.

The car is packed.

The reservations are made.

The itinerary is organized.

What we struggle with is not preparation.

It is departure.

The first step is always the hardest.

Yet somehow we take it.

This trip began with a drive to Thunder Bay, a visit with Karen, an overnight stay with friends Pat and Jim, and then a flight west to Abbotsford.

And, as always, the moment we were underway, our hesitation began to fade.

I confess there was one aspect of the journey I was not looking forward to.

Winter in British Columbia.

People who live in the Lower Mainland often speak proudly of their mild winters.

What they neglect to mention is the rain.

Persistent rain.

Steady rain.

The sort of rain that seems to seep through coats, sweaters, and occasionally the human spirit itself.

Give me a Northwestern Ontario winter any day.

At -20°C a person knows where they stand.

At +3°C with rain falling sideways, I find myself longing for a hot bath and wondering if my bones will ever be warm again.

Still, we made the journey.

As we always do.

Perhaps that is the lesson.

Being ready does not mean being eager.

It does not mean being fearless.

It does not mean we have stopped loving home.

It simply means taking the first step despite our reluctance.

The adventure, after all, never begins while sitting comfortably in our favourite chair.

It begins when we finally decide to stand up.

GB