“Writing is a way to return”, says author Laura Imai Messina. A return to a place close to the heart, to an emotion. And, for me, also to ourselves. Writing is traveling. And, as with any journey, there isn’t just one destination — whether final or transitory. There’s the ongoing, daily experience of the journey itself.

From Marco Aurelio to Konstantinos Kavafis, and on to Antonio Tabucchi, many authors have touched on the theme of the journey. Each in their own style and with their own admonitions, with the aim of reminding us humans that, ultimately, we are only passing through. And for this very reason, we should wish for “the road is a long one and may there be many summer mornings.”

The theme of travel has always been particularly dear to me. I firmly believe that traveling and discovering are part of a single embrace and represent unique opportunities, each in its own way, to explore places, people, traditions, scents, and distinctive colors — and also to discover ourselves. To understand how we handle certain situations, how we coexist with those around us, and what we can learn from these circumstances and from those we meet along the way.

And when we think that a journey is merely one with a capital "J" — the kind where we physically pack a suitcase, take a car, a train, or a plane — it would be nice to pause for a moment and ask ourselves: isn’t it perhaps a journey within a journey? A small journey within a larger one: the single opportunity we are given, called life. A life where, even without physical luggage, we carry baggage nonetheless. Baggage made up of ideas, thoughts, beliefs — of everything that has been and everything that is. Of what we are. This is not just any baggage, then. It deserves much attention: it’s important that our baggage meets certain criteria.

First, its size. It should not be cumbersome. A carry-on, for example, might be ideal: compact enough to be with us everywhere, even on a plane if necessary.

Second, its weight. It should be light. Can we imagine constantly lugging around heavy baggage that prevents us from moving freely? And not just in terms of material possessions, but especially in terms of thoughts, beliefs, or cognitive biases. It should contain only the essentials — what is genuinely useful, constructive, and conducive to well-being.

Finally, its contents. These should be chosen wisely. The essentials, precisely. What we truly need, that which allows us to strive for balance — our own balance, entirely subjective and personal. Wrapping one item around another, protecting what we choose to carry with us — not with judgment but with awareness.

If I had to imagine the ideal baggage, I would picture it just like this: compact, light, and filled with essentials. Of course, no baggage will be free from scratches, damages, or other marks. If we imagine traveling far and wide, it’s wise to account for these possibilities. However, these too will become markers of uniqueness, because they will be ours — they will have shaped us into the people we have become over time.

I choose to conclude this reflection with an excerpt from Antonio Tabucchi’s book Traveling and Other Journeys, which deeply moved me:

“But when all is said and done, I have traveled a great deal, I admit it; I have visited and lived in many ‘elsewheres.’ And I feel this as a great privilege, because setting foot on the same soil for an entire lifetime can lead to a dangerous misconception: it can make us believe that the land belongs to us, as if it were not on loan — as everything in life is on loan. Konstantinos Kavafis expressed this in an extraordinary poem titled Itaca: the journey finds its meaning solely in itself, in being a journey. And this is a great lesson if we are able to grasp its true significance: it is like our existence, whose primary sense is that it is meant to be lived.”