At the Confluence of Dreams

I wonder what goes through my friends’ minds when I reach out to them and ask if they are free to hop continents. Their pal from afar, politely inquiring if they have vacation days to donate to a spontaneous adventure. No less to a nation they had not given a moment’s thought until the text arrived.

Curiously, they say yes. It has happened three times during my working life. Canadian winters escaped by trotting to New Zealand, embalmed in festive cheer and soaring heat. A summer outing on trains across Hungary, Austria, and Switzerland, from burning pavements to the breezy Alps, from walking through air-conditioned museums to rolling around in a Soviet era jeep. And now we look forward to Fall hikes into the wild nowheres that dominate the Chilean terrain. To time budgeted for its companion islands, arid deserts, and stormy South.

Good friends. Few in number and anywhere from hundreds to several thousand kilometers apart, but easy to restart conversations with, sometimes years after they dropped off.

I have discussed the pull of the foreign before. It is a gravity unequally distributed amongst the group and we are the better for it. We each chase a different spark as we prepare ourselves for the journey.

The flickers of magic in new locations that one dwells on in anticipation of novel experiences. They always seem to appear when least expected, in different spots than predicted, and are sometimes not fully understood until months or years afterwards. I remember thinking that the epic scenery of Canterbury would uniquely elicit that sought feeling of awe – that within the first week on the land of the long white cloud I would capture the magic, if briefly, of travel beyond regular horizons. The region was spectacular, yet it was pleasantly the start of stumbling through a larger fantasy filled with similar highlights. I felt myself reflecting many months later on how there is a spell over that entire corner of the world. Its distinctive wildlife, volcanic landscapes, and tussle with existence in the liminal. Oceans away, a land where caves hold glow worms and hobbits alike.

Where will the magic be felt this time? Which dreams will become reality? For me, it is the prime allure of illuminations hidden by distance and time – the impossibly far crucibles that are outshone by our streetlights. The furnaces destined to create the elements that will form our cosmic neighbors eons from now; reminders of the billions of fiery ancestors we all share. I am not speaking of stars and galaxies imprinted in our skies that are happened upon during cloudless nights. Orion and his friends are close-by, usually bright, piercing our polluted atmosphere with little difficulty. I speak of the others whose presence has been taken from us by centuries of industrialization – the ones barely visible after an hour of pupils adjusting to true darkness. The sands of the Atacama are a unique vantage point for these forgotten voyagers.

I wonder what dreams my colleagues carry. Perhaps the magic will reach them standing in front of a majestic Moai, or beside a glacier with an indescribable hue, or at the foot of the Andes as alpacas amble by. Will they feel the impact then, or will they be too enchanted to notice?

The truth is, the spells are everywhere. This planet is extraordinary and we tend to get a little complacent with our surroundings. What we consider mundane because it is everyday nonetheless encapsulates breathtaking depth. And we ought to be better at stepping out of that particular trance and into one that does not gloss over the remarkable that resides close by. Continents need not be navigated to attain transcendence.

But that should not diminish the intentional excursions seeking to return us to the magic. In travelling far, we appreciate more what is close at hand. This next trip, after all, is our gift to each other. A set of shared experiences at the confluence of those dreams. Personally held yet etched into collective memory.