on leaving

   because I am curious
All this, and discontent too! Otherwise, why am I sitting here dreaming of England? Why am I gazing at this campfire like a lost soul seeking a hope when all that I love is at my wingtips? Because I am curious. Because I am incorrigibly, now, a wanderer.

Beryl Markham, West with the night (1942)

on leaving

   the going-away lump
All that remained was that familiar indefinable lump in the chest. It had nothing to do with problems or perplexities. It did not seem specifically related to anything. It was simply the going-away lump, that had been there when I was a child and was as uncontrollable now as then. Leaving the seaside after the summer was over; leaving home for the seaside; leaving houses, country and city, casual and important, temporary and permanent - any place that you had made with difficulty and affection your home. In fact, simply going away.

Why, I sometimes argued with myself, you might be your great-great- grandmother, who never left her New England house or village, instead of someone who travelled constantly. What did they call it in New England when they felt this same thing, this lump in the throat, this sick feeling in the pit of the stomach, when the trunks were strapped up and the hat boxes were piled high at the front door, waiting for the carriage? "Journey-proud," they said. "She's just journey-proud."

Anne Morrow Lindbergh, Listen! the wind (1938)

on leaving

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