Traveling at Home

Bishop's poem "Questions of Travel" is aptly titled, since it does not give any answers. Yet, the trajectory of the poem begins with apprehensiveness towards various geographic features of the earth, and after the poem begs the reader to consider the reasoning behind seeking different parts of the world and lays out a list of things that would be "a pity" (lines 30, 42, 47) to miss, the poem seems to veer on the side of celebrating the human need to satisfy wanderlust, - the desire to travel. Still, only rhetorical questions are provided to illustrate the poem's perspective, and the value of staying at home and imagining experiences may be equal to that of physically having those experiences.
     If you have ever had a conversation with me about exploring the Adirondacks or traveling, it is likely that you have heard me expressed my guilt over having wanderlust. I have always judged the need to travel to be a sign of weakness in a person, an attitude that probably developed from engaging my imagination muscle through reading books, writing, and creating scenarios for stuffed animals and dolls as a child. There is this sense of superiority I feel when I am able to stay in my room all afternoon and come to the dinner table with a changed perspective and memories of near-sensory experiences (thoughts?) just from exercising my mind. I have asked myself time and time again "must we dream our dreams and have them, too?", except in my own words. And as I temporarily dwell in this new place filled with mountains I have not climbed, animals I have not heard call, a view of the stars I have barely gazed at, firs I have not smelled, and fresh air I have not tasted, my faith in the infinite power of the human imagination is constantly challenged. Just as there are colors and vibrational frequencies unbeknownst to our reality, just as every form of artistic media--including these words-- has its limitations, our imagination is not everything. There would be no books if there were not inspiration, and the only inspiration that I know of stems from the world around us. Even our dreams reflect all we have perceived from our exterior in this life. So, I am not so ashamed to want to travel anymore.
     But still, I do not know where my home is. "Continent, city, country, society"-- They are all so similar. If home is everywhere, am I never home, or am I always home? If my imagination is strong enough to give me all that I need and desire, and I could get along just staying at home, if home can be "wherever that may be", does staying at home mean that I actually do not stay in one place? Perhaps the earth, the universe, even,  is smaller than I have been interpreting it to be. Perhaps I am always staying in my room, and my imagination is no less weak.