A Note From Alaska
Remembering what it means to be curious, quiet, and fully awake
I can still see myself at 7 years old, sitting in my bedroom in 1987, staring out the window. With my elbow propped on the window ledge and my jaw resting on the palm of my hand, I watched as huge chunks of snow fell to the ground outside my childhood home. In that moment, in my own little mind, I crafted stories. I had no knowledge of the world, only a dream of what it might be, what it could be.
I sat there for hours, before anyone else in the house had stirred to start the day. In those hours I created a whole world, one filled with snow fairies and tall castles crafted from shards of ice. The characters all had heroic storylines, overcoming impossible obstacles in a world working against them. And the snow? Well, the snow was the backbone of it all. Each flurry that fell moved me further and further into a world unknown to anyone but me.
I did this all the time. It wasn’t just the snowy days. I was lost in spring florals, summer thunderstorms, and autumnal color shifts. My entertainment was found there. My imagination thrived there.
I haven’t thought of that window for so many years. And then this week, it all came flooding back in the most beautiful and clear way.
This past week, I’ve turned off the TV. I’ve put the phone face down on my bed. I’ve hidden away the headphones. And I can’t even tell you where I left my laptop.
For the past five days, I’ve been in Alaska. I can’t believe I’m even writing that. Seven year old me would be screaming, “we’re in Alaska?!” What I wanted to write there was actually, “For the past five days, I’ve time travelled.” In my heart, I’ve lived my life like it was 1987, before the days of social media, before streaming entertainment and constant digital communication with the whole world all the time. Back to that window. That’s how it’s felt.
I’ve been sailing the Inside Passage here in Alaska, and the window of my childhood bedroom has been replaced by one with a view that changes constantly. It’s magical. It’s what I think I enjoy the most about the concept of seeing the world from a boat or a ship. The world, from your bedroom window, is constantly changing. And this week, I sat before mine as often as I was allowed and watched the world around me in awe.
But more than that, I felt a piece of me return that I have been missing for some time. In choosing to watch the world around me, rather than the screen constantly under my nose, I awoke a sleeping giant: my fantastical storyteller.
As I have watched glaciers, icebergs, seaplanes, tall snowy mountains, waterfalls, coastal homes and more pass before me, I felt the stories come back. I felt my brain swell with excitement at the idea of creating again, writing again, sharing again. Building a world out of the physical world around me, right here in the here and now.
That is the gift of travel. That is the rush of discovery, the reward for curiosity. And this week, my front row seat with the natural world has reminded me of just how important it is to venture out, to explore, to find the places and things you’ve only ever read about in books and see them with your own two eyes! In real life.
The irony here is that I make a living by you looking at a screen, whether it’s your phone or your computer. But right now, in this moment, I’m telling you to sever ties. If it has to be with me, then so be it. Find your window, find your adventure. Make that time. Get lost in the world around you that exists off these silly screens.
The reward is more than I can ever put into words. It is a power that cannot be communicated here. I can only promise you that it’s felt in the moment. It’s a buzz that runs through you like a runner’s high. It’s feeling alive, living life in full volume again in a world that has had the sound turned down by technology.
You may also like:
I just took a four day Amtrak from Harper’s Ferry, WV to Emeryville, CA; three trains, three rooms. Four days of tree canopies, plains, vistas, towns, and four days of no wi-fi and barely there cell service. I took care of my mother for the last five months through a brutal illness, and her passing, the estate, the service and the constant pull on me was exhausting. To go from a place of constant high-alert to…was the best Rx for me. My rooms were my sanctuaries, where I could curl up, stare, nap, snack (snacks are important!), nap, read, and sleep. I would highly recommend this kind of trip for a slow-cation. I hope you consider doing a trip like this as I’d love to see your perspective on American train travel (which is ok for the accommodations but hundo p for the restoration needs.)
Advice we should all seriously consider.