In the nomad world, freedom is often defined by the ability to leave.

The freedom to move.
The freedom to choose where to live and work.
The freedom to avoid commitments that might tie us down.

For many people this freedom is deeply attractive. It promises adventure, independence, and the possibility to reinvent ourselves again and again. But there is also a quiet question hiding behind this idea of freedom. If we are always free to leave, how deeply can we ever connect? Connection asks for something different. It asks for presence. For time. For the willingness to stay long enough to understand a place, a community, or even a person.

The paradox is that what we sometimes call freedom can slowly turn into distance. When we keep every door open, we may never fully enter the room. This is where the image of the flying dog comes to mind. A dog is usually a creature of loyalty and belonging. It knows its place, its people, its ground. But imagine a dog that suddenly discovers it can fly. Flying brings exhilaration. It opens the sky and removes every boundary. Yet even the flying dog must eventually land. And when it does, the ground it touches becomes meaningful again.

A few weeks ago I was introduced to a small and welcoming community place in Valencia called The Fabric. It was there that I met the artist behind this painting. A week later he travelled to my place together with a friend and her granddaughter, and they stayed for a few days. We shared meals, deep conversations, and personal stories, reflecting together on life and on what is happening in the world today. We sang, we danced, and simply enjoyed being present in that moment.

There was an intense sense of presence in those days, the kind of connection that sometimes appears unexpectedly between people who have never met before. Almost unbelievably, he painted this work in just two days. For him, it was his interpretation of that moment. For me, the painting became my interpretation of his moment.

That is what art does. It moves beyond words. It channels something invisible between people, a flow of energy that reconnects heaven and earth. Perhaps freedom and connection are not opposites after all. Perhaps true freedom is not the absence of bonds, but the ability to choose the bonds that give our lives meaning.

This reflection also connects to something I explored in an earlier article, How We Connect to Our Dragon Spirits: From Ancient Land Wisdom to Modern Nomad Life. There I reflected on how the essence of nomadic life has never truly been about constant movement or the absence of roots. Our ancestors understood that connection does not require attachment. They moved when needed, stayed when invited, and trusted their ability to reconnect with land, with people, and with purpose. Perhaps the real freedom of nomadism lies exactly there: in our innate capacity to connect again and again, wherever life brings us.

In a world where mobility has become easier than ever, the real challenge may not be how far we can travel, but how deeply we can connect with the places, and the people, we encounter.

The flying dog reminds us that we can explore the sky without forgetting the ground beneath our feet. And maybe the future of freedom lies exactly there: in learning how to move through the world, and perhaps, if we are ready for it, through the universe, while still belonging to it.

Join the Exploration

My Experience is a movement exploring regenerative ways of living and traveling, rooted in freedom, connection, and respect for place.

If this resonates with you, you’re welcome to join My Experience, follow the process, or take part in the conversation. And if you want to explore these ideas in person, come to the Gran Canaria Nomad Fest – Pilot Edition 2026 to learn, share, and co-create what comes next.