There is a strange guilt that comes with stillness when you live on the road. Every day spent not moving feels like a day wasted. But then you find a place — a bend in a river, a meadow full of wildflowers, a cliff edge overlooking the sea — and something in you exhales. You brew coffee. You read a book. You watch the light crawl across the floor of your van. You do absolutely nothing of consequence, and it is glorious. Because travel is not only about covering ground. It's about letting the ground cover you, once in a while. Stillness is not the opposite of adventure. It is the part of adventure where the meaning catches up.