I suppose I’m a boomeranger of sorts, always pulled outward by wonder, yet circling back with more questions than answers. I no longer travel to escape. I travel to remember. To remember who I’ve been, and to catch glimpses of who I am becoming.

Before leaving for Tasmania, I had been reading Bruce Chatwin’s The Songlines. His way of blending travel, philosophy, and journal entries felt familiar, as if a kindred spirit was walking beside me. He reminded me that movement isn’t aimless. It’s ancestral, maybe even cellular. To wound the land is to wound ourselves. Places are not just scenery to pass through; they shape me as much as I witness them.

On the flight from Sydney to Hobart, I carried another companion: Schrödinger’s What Is Life? His insistence that living beings survive by pulling order out of chaos resonated with me. By the time we descended over Tasmania’s jagged coastline, I found myself asking: what is it that truly comforts me in the chaos of living?

Tasmania responded, but it came in fragments.

Biking with my son Cole toward Coles Bay was a mix of scenic beauty along the Tasman Highway, with some sections having narrow shoulders that required us to stay alert and confident. Zooming past the rolling hills with glimpses of Wineglass Bay showed how rugged and unrefined Freycinet National Park remains.

This was my first hint. Nature doesn’t soften itself for anyone; it stands firm on its edges. Later that afternoon, in a small family winery called Craigie Knowe, a father and son poured us their history in glasses of pinot and chardonnay, demonstrating that community is as essential as rainfall. Their pride was quiet, steady, and lingered longer than the taste of scallops on my tongue and the sheepdog afraid of his shadow.

The next couple of days unfolded on Tasmania’s east coast, provided a jumble of unexpected events.

Local oysters were cracked and shucked open in a cold estuary as we waded through chilly waters, drinking sparkling wine while Fraser, our guide, told jokes and shared stories. We slurped back more than twenty fresh, native Southern mud oysters, which were salty, briny, and fresh—not fishy—with a mineral-like, substantial texture that I will never forget. 

Another experience brought bees humming around me as I fumbled in a clumsy white apiary suit. Beekeeper Rob of Wild Hive showed us a patience that belonged in an Elementary school classroom.  This beekeeping experience provided a sensory immersion into the region’s unique biodiversity, where we learned how to harvest and tasted premium honey varieties, including Manuka and Prickly Box. Traisping through the scenic areas of this peninsula not only combined hands-on apiary work with a deeper understanding of the ecosystem but also showed how the local flora and fauna work together. 

We were fortunate to watch the Tasmanian Devils, who are fierce in their survival, tearing apart a wallaby to stout brown wombats with stubby tails and their comically square droppings. It is clear that life here didn’t fit neatly into categories; it was intense and tender, wild and strange, untamed.  The subtle truths of why I travel surrounded me daily.

Evenings at Saffire Lodge had their own rhythm. The chef gave us a culinary adventure that departed from the familiar, blending authentic flavors with a subtle twist. Strangers became companions: a Nigerian doctor and his wife, a Tasmanian man with his English partner, my son, and me. Around the table, wine flowed, and conversation deepened into topics that matter, from travel to politics, from our needs to scars and how our past shapes our behavior. The evening before we departed, I asked what it means to be seen, acknowledged, and rewarded, and as a group, we peeled back the layers.

We all realized how fragile those threads are, and how empty life feels when one of them is missing. That’s when Schrödinger’s cat came to mind, a thought experiment illustrating how we can be in multiple emotional states serving as a metaphor for aspects of life; being unsure and taking a leap of faith. What I am understanding is, many more people than I realized are in a state of uncertainty until they are recognized. Being seen means you exist, and we find comfort in this affirmation. Being acknowledged means you are validated for your efforts and truth. Being rewarded means you move forward because of your contribution. Order doesn’t come from controlling chaos; it comes from opening the box together not knowing what you will find.

The lodge staff surprised the Tasmanian man with a birthday treat, a small gesture meant for him. Instead of keeping it, he shared it, slicing it into six uneven pieces and passing them around the table. A gift, multiplied by each voice at the dimly lit table, brought its own sense of purpose, fairness, and culture, converging on the same truth—people thrive at the intersection of all three. Leave out one, and an imbalance occurs: rewards without acknowledgment feel transactional, acknowledgment without being felt feels superficial, and being seen without reward becomes an empty observation.

And then, just as our time in Tasmania ended, a final moment arrived that sealed it all.

On the way back to the airport, Cole and I took off in a helicopter, getting a bird’s-eye view of the mountainous island below; dolerite peaks, cliffs plunging into the restless sea, and a coastline as jagged as it was majestic. Midway through the forty-five–minute flight, the clouds swallowed us. Rain slapped the windshield, winds pushed the aircraft side to side, and for a tense moment, my mind jumped to Kobe Bryant and his daughter, lost forever in similar fog. Fear crept in, whispering fragility.

But then, I claimed my mind back. Within minutes, the sky loosened its grip. The clouds thinned, and there, directly in front of us, stretched a rainbow arched across the clearing sky, a passageway of color, luminous and surreal. Together, my son and I flew through its arches…through the impossible doorway of a rainbow in the sky. A reminder that we are only visitors in this beautiful yet fragile place we call life, given moments like these as both a gift and a lesson.

Tasmania didn’t give me a neat ending. Instead, it offered a rhythm, a pulse, a reminder that life isn’t tidy but can be woven together, from a father and son’s vineyard to an oyster farm at low tide with strangers laughing over shared local wine, ending with a rainbow arc across the sky as I watched the restless force of mountains meeting the sea. I’ve realized that movement isn’t about reaching destinations; it’s about maintaining continuity—listening for the hum beneath the noise and allowing ourselves to be sung into existence again and again.