Travel Inside
Eavesdropping on a book club that must have been gathering for over forty years, I’m seated adjacent to them. One woman who was ninety-if-she’s-a-day was consoling another woman close in age.
“I don’t like the internet,” says the latter,”It makes me feel like I’ve never been anywhere or done anything.”
“Oh, now honey,” the first lays her hand on the other’s shoulder. “We live in a place people visit and hate to leave. You sit up there (on her mountain property) and look out on that view everyday. Look around. Or better yet, look inside. That’s the place where the best journeys occur.”
This reminded me of a piece I wrote almost ten years ago and a friend put to music.
Travel inside.
Be your own ride.
When your access is denied.
When you’re absolutely fried.
When you know that everyone lied.
Travel inside.
Be your own ride.
Behind your back, your hands are tied.
Your soul needs a place to hide.
Not to reside,
but to confide.
Travel inside.
Be your own ride.
Discover the endless motherlode,
when you let you
be your own road.
Your rapid pulse
is finally slowed,
You’ll see to be
still as a toad.
Don’t need no jet ‘aireoplane’.
Introspection keeps you sane.
Don’t need a bus,
don’t need a train.
Just what’s in us,
not in complaints.
Don’t need to find a better view.
Travel on what’s inside of you.