Travel is a drug.  And I'm addicted.  This is humorous to me since, as of four months ago, I had never left the continent.  I mean, come on, I'm one of those people that used to pray that I wouldn't be called into missions work.  

I returned from Scotland and was surprised at the post-travel mood that I've only just shook off two weeks after returning home.  Scotland was euphoric, Swaziland mystical and Vancouver...suddenly too known.

The only thing that's kept me going suddenly is the fact that I'm going to Swaziland again in a week.  I fear that this new discovery--a love for foreign lands--has irreversibly changed me.  Now days home must be intermingled with the hope of an approaching trip.  

I grew up moving every few years.  Texas, New York, Boston, Winnipeg, Calgary, California and Vancouver.  I remember leaving university, looking forward to having 100% control over where I lived.  A few years ago I realized I crossed the mark where Vancouver is the place I've lived the longest.  That used to be a dream.

Now, I find myself constantly looking at photos of recent adventures, dreaming of how different life could be.  I used to be addicted to routine, now I get depressed at the thought.

The hopeful lesson that has come from this is that we can change.  A belief I have to cling to: that people can change, that anything  can change.  

So, what's next?