February 1994: It was the dead of a cold, snowbound winter that was a precursor to what I would later discover to be an even colder referendum year. I had been transferred from Toronto to cosmopolitan Montreal to work at my company’s head office. This was my first (and - who could have known then! – only!) corporate job. I had less than an inkling of what it would entail (the person responsible for my transfer, when pressed as to what I might be responsible for in my new role replied, “I have absolutely no idea”), but I was pretty sure it was considered some form of promotion. A basic hotel room served as my temporary address as I waited for the moving van to rumble across the Ontario-Quebec border with my bits of pressboard- and chipped-melamine furniture. It would arrive three weeks later. I had little money, less French, no local friends and no idea of what I was in for.
To date it was the second-biggest adventure that I had ever embarked on, coming in slightly behind the move out of my birth city and the protective nest of my parents’ home just a year before and quite on parallel with the out-of-control stale-dinner-roll fight I found myself and two of my closest comrades in the middle of on the slope of the Big Hill at the King’s College residences back in ’76, at the ripe age of seven.
Adventure often necessitates survival of the fittest. In the midst of such uncertainty there is only one sure plan of attack: protect ones’ buns, stand ones’ ground and duck only when fired upon.
J (head honcho at The Company and the man who plucked me from my life of retail management) was brilliant and funny and he loved to share jokes, anecdotes and books he thought to be interesting. One day, after I had been working at the office for a while and when I assume J could no longer suffer through my unending attempts to assimilate myself into the corporate world and this new life, he passed by my desk and handed me a sheet of paper with a short passage typed on it in plain black font. The title of the passage was “New Directions” and its no-nonsense insights into how to approach life changes grounded me and restored some clarity of purpose.
I didn’t know who had written the bold little paragraph (did he? Impressive!), but I pinned the paper to the bulletin board next to my desk and read it every day.
Years passed, things got more complicated; the responsibility and the stress level grew in tandem with the job title. Cubicle walls shifted, salaries grew and colleagues came and went, including J. Always on my bulletin board was the paper he had given me, now gunshot with push-pin holes. The words didn’t hit home all the time, but I read them faithfully. The tattered paper came with me when I eventually quit that job, and the one after it, and through myriad changes that have surprised themselves upon my life along the way. Its sage message was included in my address to the graduating class of my alma mater almost 20 years after my graduation. New Directions.
March, 2010: I’m going back to work this week after essentially being on vacation for the last two years. For two years, I’ve traveled and met, explored, learned and rested and pretty much done whatever I’ve wanted. All of this, as well as working from home and for myself, writing, doing what I love, collectively has been a dream come true; but it’s also not necessarily sustainable, and the writing part is lonely and it’s not really paying enough just yet. This job opportunity came to me; it found me when I was feeling lost and lethargic and unsure of what my next move would be. It came to me from someone whom I have admired and sort of adored a little bit through the years, and who is brilliant and who will be my boss and whom I cannot wait to learn from. I also cannot wait to shoot him with a Nerf gun, which my office comes supplied with.
The adventure continues, but the vacation is over. I had no intention of this. It’s not how I envisioned things for myself. But we must be careful of that, of the story we tell ourselves about what we should and shouldn’t be doing, about where we should and shouldn’t be at any given moment in our lives, and especially about comparing. There is no right way or wrong way. We are not the story we tell ourselves. I am not a character in a blog or a book. I am just me, doing what I need to do to get by. (Thank you to a different J for reminding me often of this.) It’s painful to think of how far back my next visit to my island will be pushed by this, like in those dreams where the hallway gets longer as you’re running down it. On a more day-to-day level it’s both a little nauseating and humbling to have to dig out all my old Tupperware and make dull lunches again and to have to be somewhere at a certain time every day from Monday to Friday. But if I so choose it to be it’s also another part of my adventure, by which I am charged with excitement and optimism and giddiness at the seeming randomness of life. It is a new direction.
As for the passage typed on that scrap of paper...
New Directions
“Each of us has the right and the responsibility to assess the roads which lie ahead, and those over which we have traveled, and if the future road looms ominous or unpromising, and the roads back uninviting, then we need to gather our resolve and, carrying only the necessary baggage, step off that road into another direction. If the new choice is also unpalatable, then without embarrassment, we must be ready to change that as well.”
Maya Angelou
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
Monday, February 15, 2010
Winners and Losers
While I was watching the breathtaking Olympic men’s moguls competition last night my television screen almost cracked. Not from all the fist-pumping and arm-flailing I was engaging in as Alex Bilodeau finally took Canada to solid gold status on our home turf with his mesmerizing performance, but from the stinking, miserable, sourpuss expression on Dale Begg-Smith’s mug as he stood on the second-highest podium, sulking about the hunk of silver he had to choke on. I could have sharpened a set of chef’s knives on that face, it was so stony. Nothing says “Olympic Spirit” like showing millions of viewers, spectators, judges and other athletes just how badly you want to shove a bouquet of flowers down the throat of the Best Men’s Mogul Skier in the World, just before you stab him through the heart with your ski pole.
In sharp contrast, Bryan Wilson, a complete unknown from the US, exuded a visible joy over his bronze medal win that was endearing and infectious. He didn’t care that he was on the symbolic lowest of the three podiums. To him, it was a purely golden moment.
Begg-Smith, the undisputed champion going into the race, was the favourite for gold again at this event. Bilodeau snatching it from him was what they call an “upset”. I get that. I can’t fathom how crushed, both in spirit and in ego, the Canadian-Aussie must have felt at the moment of realization that the grandeur that goes with being Number One would no longer be his. Bilodeau and Wilson experienced the thrill of glory. Begg-Smith, the agony of defeat. Part of those experiences is just choice.
There are endless nuances to the emotions tied up in an Olympic experience that I will never be privy to; infinite physical, physiological and psychological factors that come into play for these competitors that I will never know a single thing about. But I, who has not and will never have one bit of the DNA that it takes to be anything even close to an Olympic athlete, do know one thing: Whether you’re a millionaire standing in front of the world at the almost-top of an Olympic podium in the very country that raised you and that you then ditched or you’re Joe Anyone winning a second-place ribbon in the local track and field meet in Nowheresville USA, a little sportsmanship goes a long way.
In the privacy of your own home, knock yourself out. Cry, scream, rave on about how unfair it all is, string together any chain of expletives you want in reference to the person or people who outperformed you; they probably cheated or got favoured by the judges anyway, right? Do, say, think what you want. Nobody’s looking.
But for the six minutes that the cameras are rolling, your character is on full display for millions of people around the world to size up and you just delivered a near-perfect performance and a silver medal to your country (your other country, that is), for crap’s sake at least try to crack a half of a freaking smile. Just fake it. You won a silver medal, dude. The only thing worse than a sore loser is a sore winner.
You think Heil was happy with her silver-medal finish? She thought, we all thought, she had the gold in the bag. Canadians were counting on her for it and she knew it. But she took second place and was still full of grace and toothy grin for us all the way through - at least when everyone was looking.
How well you perform is only one part of what defines you as an athlete, a sportsman and a winner. The other part is how you carry yourself through it all.
Your silver medal performance didn’t shame your countrymen, Dale. Your crappy attitude did.
In sharp contrast, Bryan Wilson, a complete unknown from the US, exuded a visible joy over his bronze medal win that was endearing and infectious. He didn’t care that he was on the symbolic lowest of the three podiums. To him, it was a purely golden moment.
Begg-Smith, the undisputed champion going into the race, was the favourite for gold again at this event. Bilodeau snatching it from him was what they call an “upset”. I get that. I can’t fathom how crushed, both in spirit and in ego, the Canadian-Aussie must have felt at the moment of realization that the grandeur that goes with being Number One would no longer be his. Bilodeau and Wilson experienced the thrill of glory. Begg-Smith, the agony of defeat. Part of those experiences is just choice.
There are endless nuances to the emotions tied up in an Olympic experience that I will never be privy to; infinite physical, physiological and psychological factors that come into play for these competitors that I will never know a single thing about. But I, who has not and will never have one bit of the DNA that it takes to be anything even close to an Olympic athlete, do know one thing: Whether you’re a millionaire standing in front of the world at the almost-top of an Olympic podium in the very country that raised you and that you then ditched or you’re Joe Anyone winning a second-place ribbon in the local track and field meet in Nowheresville USA, a little sportsmanship goes a long way.
In the privacy of your own home, knock yourself out. Cry, scream, rave on about how unfair it all is, string together any chain of expletives you want in reference to the person or people who outperformed you; they probably cheated or got favoured by the judges anyway, right? Do, say, think what you want. Nobody’s looking.
But for the six minutes that the cameras are rolling, your character is on full display for millions of people around the world to size up and you just delivered a near-perfect performance and a silver medal to your country (your other country, that is), for crap’s sake at least try to crack a half of a freaking smile. Just fake it. You won a silver medal, dude. The only thing worse than a sore loser is a sore winner.
You think Heil was happy with her silver-medal finish? She thought, we all thought, she had the gold in the bag. Canadians were counting on her for it and she knew it. But she took second place and was still full of grace and toothy grin for us all the way through - at least when everyone was looking.
How well you perform is only one part of what defines you as an athlete, a sportsman and a winner. The other part is how you carry yourself through it all.
Your silver medal performance didn’t shame your countrymen, Dale. Your crappy attitude did.
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Proof Positive.
I could compose a curmudgeonly update about the ridiculous (to the point that it’s no longer dreaded by me) Valentine’s Day hoopla that’s going to go on today, but I’ve decided to leave the curmudgeoning to the self-proclaimed master - my friend DJ. You can check out his grumpfest here. I hope he writes about Valentine’s Day because the festival of Hallmark cards and chocolate-filled cardboard hearts will be berated by him with a mastery that I can only hope to one day approach. If he doesn’t, his bellyaching about the Olympics is a great read, so check that out.
Instead I’ve decided to share with you something a little more uplifting - some thoughts regarding a recent stumble-upon, my rather newish friend M.
M is in her mid-forties and very recently separated (by choice) from her husband of 24 years, with whom she has two children. She moved out of their home in the ‘burbs to take over a microscopic but uber-stylish apartment in the heart of Old Montreal, where she always wanted to live. She quit her full-time job and went freelance as an interior decorator and designer of high-end home entertainment solutions - but not before taking off on a dream vacation to Italy, alone. She has completely changed her life.
It goes without saying that M’s got guts. We understand each other pretty well, too. What impresses me the most about her, though, is the unfailingly positive attitude she carries around. All the time. About everything. Whether for a stranger or for a friend she’s never without a smile, a wink and a cheery comment. She’s spontaneous, confident and hilarious and men seem to flock around her.So what’s her secret?
As complicated as her life must be at moments (see “24 years of marriage and two kids”, above), from what I can deduce her everyday philosophy essentially boils down to three simple rules: Stay positive. Smile. Wear lip gloss.
Can it really be that simple?
I was getting ready to head out on my thousandth blind date a few nights ago (surprisingly there is no prize awarded for reaching this milestone number) and – shockingly! – feeling a bit jaded and cynical about it all. M texted me before I left home to make sure I was wearing sexy boots and not frumpy winter ones, and then again as I was en route: “Stay positive! Smile! Are you wearing lip gloss?” Check. Check. Check. It wasn’t a great date (how long can we possibly discuss motorcycles without having a wine refill?), but I left feeling pretty good about myself anyway.
A couple of days later I was rushing to a job interview (!), feeling a mixture of emotions over what I was about to do. Just before I walked through the door, a text from M: “You better be wearing good boots again. Don’t forget to stay positive! Smile! Are you wearing lip gloss?” While I quite naturally would have thought of most of these things in this situation anyway, it was a simple and nicely timed reminder. I followed her “instructions” to a tee. It was a great interview, but even if it hadn’t been, I suspect I would have still walked out feeling good about myself.
I decided to start testing out her undeclared philosophy in everyday situations - after all, it clearly worked for her. While elements of it are not necessarily practical while I’m holed up in my home office (see good boots and lip gloss), it’s all pretty elementary to put into practice when I’m out and about. Smile when I perhaps normally wouldn’t. Pay a little attention to what I look like. And most importantly, think positively (as part of the LuluLemon manifesto states, “The conscious brain can only hold one thought at a time. Choose a positive thought”).
Things started to happen: People smiled back. Men held doors open. The world seemed a little friendlier. And I felt a little happier. How easy was that?
We’ve all got lots of crap going on in our lives. I’m no exception and neither is M. And while we’re all well aware that there are myriad situations that can’t be resolved with a happy thought, a facial expression and some beauty products, in essence M is onto something. Life is complicated enough on its own, so why not control the controllables? Do a little something to make yourself feel good and don’t get mired in the muck when you don’t have to. It’ll happen enough on its own.
So stay positive. Smile. Wear lip gloss.
“Positive anything is better than negative nothing.” Elbert Hubbard
Instead I’ve decided to share with you something a little more uplifting - some thoughts regarding a recent stumble-upon, my rather newish friend M.
M is in her mid-forties and very recently separated (by choice) from her husband of 24 years, with whom she has two children. She moved out of their home in the ‘burbs to take over a microscopic but uber-stylish apartment in the heart of Old Montreal, where she always wanted to live. She quit her full-time job and went freelance as an interior decorator and designer of high-end home entertainment solutions - but not before taking off on a dream vacation to Italy, alone. She has completely changed her life.
It goes without saying that M’s got guts. We understand each other pretty well, too. What impresses me the most about her, though, is the unfailingly positive attitude she carries around. All the time. About everything. Whether for a stranger or for a friend she’s never without a smile, a wink and a cheery comment. She’s spontaneous, confident and hilarious and men seem to flock around her.So what’s her secret?
As complicated as her life must be at moments (see “24 years of marriage and two kids”, above), from what I can deduce her everyday philosophy essentially boils down to three simple rules: Stay positive. Smile. Wear lip gloss.
Can it really be that simple?
I was getting ready to head out on my thousandth blind date a few nights ago (surprisingly there is no prize awarded for reaching this milestone number) and – shockingly! – feeling a bit jaded and cynical about it all. M texted me before I left home to make sure I was wearing sexy boots and not frumpy winter ones, and then again as I was en route: “Stay positive! Smile! Are you wearing lip gloss?” Check. Check. Check. It wasn’t a great date (how long can we possibly discuss motorcycles without having a wine refill?), but I left feeling pretty good about myself anyway.
A couple of days later I was rushing to a job interview (!), feeling a mixture of emotions over what I was about to do. Just before I walked through the door, a text from M: “You better be wearing good boots again. Don’t forget to stay positive! Smile! Are you wearing lip gloss?” While I quite naturally would have thought of most of these things in this situation anyway, it was a simple and nicely timed reminder. I followed her “instructions” to a tee. It was a great interview, but even if it hadn’t been, I suspect I would have still walked out feeling good about myself.
I decided to start testing out her undeclared philosophy in everyday situations - after all, it clearly worked for her. While elements of it are not necessarily practical while I’m holed up in my home office (see good boots and lip gloss), it’s all pretty elementary to put into practice when I’m out and about. Smile when I perhaps normally wouldn’t. Pay a little attention to what I look like. And most importantly, think positively (as part of the LuluLemon manifesto states, “The conscious brain can only hold one thought at a time. Choose a positive thought”).
Things started to happen: People smiled back. Men held doors open. The world seemed a little friendlier. And I felt a little happier. How easy was that?
We’ve all got lots of crap going on in our lives. I’m no exception and neither is M. And while we’re all well aware that there are myriad situations that can’t be resolved with a happy thought, a facial expression and some beauty products, in essence M is onto something. Life is complicated enough on its own, so why not control the controllables? Do a little something to make yourself feel good and don’t get mired in the muck when you don’t have to. It’ll happen enough on its own.
So stay positive. Smile. Wear lip gloss.
“Positive anything is better than negative nothing.” Elbert Hubbard
Monday, January 25, 2010
Now Appearing in Print.
Eep! I’m suddenly 41. How did that happen?
I was hoping to toss an update on here before the Big Day but like in many areas of my life, personal-writing time seems to be getting away from me lately. The 12 months since I stood atop Kelimutu in Flores and blew out the candle on my 40th-birthday pineapple have evaporated.
That’s a horribly North American affliction, isn’t it. I don’t even like saying it. I catch myself all-too-often these days at the end of a meal with barely a recollection of whether what I’ve just consumed was actually tasty or satisfying, or arriving someplace in my car and wondering how I’d even gotten there, on complete auto-pilot. I am desperately, painfully far from the days of lazing on my island, watching hours float past me and blend into one another somewhere far off, like mist.
I can protest and deny it all I want but the reality is that my mind is going a million miles an hour these days, in keeping with the pace of the crazy lifestyle many citizens lead here and with all that’s going on in my own erratic sphere. Clearly I’ve got somewhere to be. Can’t wait to find out where that might be, exactly.
Speaking of stuff going on, Lynn Harris is the author of an insightful and informative book entitled “Unwritten Rules: What Women Need to Know About Leading in Today’s Organizations.” The title is self-explanatory. Ms. Harris interviewed me by phone last May just a few weeks after I’d returned from my travel adventures (and was holed up at my parents’ place), with the idea of possibly including my riches-to-rags story in the “Corporate Refugees” section of her very intelligent book. Lo and behold, this rambling, unpolished, irrational journey I’m on survived the final edit, which I think makes her kind of cooler: Evidently she’s concerned with more than just colouring inside the lines, too. Hurrah!
The book is published and out there and I’m trying on the three pairs of black dress pants I kept from my former life to see if I can pull together an outfit that’s suitable for attending the book launch at Holt’s Cafe in 2 days so that I don’t look like someone who’s just been booted off Survivor, which is what I suspect some might be expecting to see, and which is kind of what I look like most days now.
I had the fortune of meeting the delightful Ms. Harris in person when I re-established myself in Montreal a few months ago. At that time she informed me that not only was my story going to appear in her book, but that it was in fact the closing story in the book. And not only was it the closing story, but links to both my blogs were being included.
!
She kindly sent me a follow-up email that included a succinct, point-form list of what the readers of her book were going to want updates on when (not “if,” she said – but, “when”) (really?) they visited my blog. The list looked something like this:
-Did you cave in and go back to your old life or did you continue to explore and pursue your aspiration of becoming a writer?
-What keeps you going on your path to a different kind of life?
-What challenges do you continue to face?
-How does it feel to start to achieve your aspiration of becoming a writer?
-Other stuff you are doing and why e.g. being car jockey
-What's happening with your "little piece of paradise" in Indonesia?
-How are others reacting to what you are doing? How does this affect you?
-What do you think of the book and the other stories?
For starters, greetings to anyone who’s visiting as a result of the bit in the book. I checked the traffic to my blog and there’s actually been some (read: more than 2 visitors) here and there, which leads me to believe that Lynn might have been right. So, hello. Welcome. I think you too are cool.
As to the points above, a few can be knocked off pretty quickly:
I’m back in Montreal and being all grown-up and independent-like and no longer “living with family”, as I was at the time the book went to print.
Check the archive links to the right for lots of blathering on about the car jockeying gig and other interesting jobs I’ve undertaken over the past several months.
The last time I checked, my island paradise was awesome. At least in my mind it is. I’m assuming the fruit trees have been planted by now (lots of assumptions get made when you live a 30-hour-flight away from your vacation property). Sam and my other friends there text me regularly and that makes me remember that it’s not all just a dream. I’ve tossed about the idea of using my line of credit to get the hut built sooner rather than later, but my gut tells me to hold off on that a bit until I can make sure I’m able to pay for a few more essential things back here at home. Sometimes a little rationality has to come into play. I know; it sucks. But Surga Cara is there, rough and hot and perfect and waiting patiently for me, with no schedule of its own.
Now, onto the harder stuff:
Did you cave in and go back to your old life or did you continue to explore and pursue your aspiration of becoming a writer?
No caving! Not yet. I avoid the corporate world like the plague and turn down all job offers that would drag me back into it. When I have to go to meetings in That World, I wear jeans. If f I do eventually “go back” - which I just may have to - it won’t be because I cave. It will be because I need money. So far though, incredibly to me, I haven’t had to visit that notion. I am writing and people are paying me to do it. It’s crazy. Oh, and the random odd jobs probably help out a bit, too.
What keeps you going on your path to a different kind of life?
Great question. Not sure. Often not sure. I guess just knowing for certain that there is a staggering amount of life to be lived and not being willing to give up on it, no matter the cost (and there is one – make no mistake). It’s super-hard, especially alone, but I’ve had the great, great fortune to have a few good friends and a mom who all have my back and who continue to act as supporters and sounding boards and voices of reason throughout it all. There are many moments when I feel as though I want to toss it all and go get me some stability in the form of a regular weekly paycheque, but they eventually pass and the adventure continues.
A friend recently divulged (when prompted by me) that she feels I’m sending mixed messages about my situation. That I talk the brave and adventurous talk but then whine about the hardship and about not having money. She’s right. It’s a rollercoaster ride full of good and bad, high days and low, cheerful and depressing, happy and sad. It’s life and there’s no black and white and I can’t apologize for that. I can maybe only talk about it less to some people.
What challenges do you continue to face?
Hoo boy. See virtually every entry of this blog over the last 10 months or so. Financial stability is obviously the major one. I’ve somehow managed to stay afloat this long and now I can even pay rent and stuff (albeit partly due to said random odd jobs and to the continued, systematic selling-off of my belongings...can that be considered income?) As is true for any new freelancer (and even some not-so-new ones I suppose), that could all change at any moment. That’s terrifying to no end, but also part of what keeps it exciting.
Then there’s loneliness, isolation, insecurity about the quality of my work, self-doubt and continuous second-guessing of my thoughts and actions, to name but a few. I also drink too much coffee.
How does it feel to start to achieve your aspiration of becoming a writer?
Surreal. Every time I get a copy writing contract I want to ask the client, “Are you sure you want to pay? Me? To do this?” But they seem to, so I just keep going and hope that they keep wanting to, too.
Working from home is indescribably amazing. The commute from my bedroom to my office is pretty short, and I live in loungewear every day and listen to jazz and drink coffee until 3 or 4 when I switch to wine. I go to the gym every morning. I push myself out the door at least one other time during the day or evening to combat the isolation and loneliness that comes with working from home. And I run. I’ve got to find more clients and fast, so that’s what I’m focusing on now.
How are others reacting to what you are doing? How does this affect you?
Not sure. Some will probably always think I’m crazy, but to my face lots of people say they think it’s pretty damned cool. The reality is that most people probably don’t think about it - or me - at all, and don’t even know what part of the world I’m in or what I’m doing, exactly.
I pretty much don’t care what anyone thinks about it. But it does make me feel good and rejuvenated when someone tells me they were inspired by my story, which just happened again recently.
I’m still thinking about writing a book and still considering doing some kind of public “talk” or presentation about my adventures. If nobody comes I will just talk anyway.
What do you think of the book and the other stories?
I loved reading the stories in the last chapter Lynn’s book about other women who have chucked it all in their own ways to search for something more meaningful and fulfilling. It reminds me of the messages contained in the life-changing encounters I had with courageous people from all over the world so very many times during my travels: we are all connected, and bravery and lives worth exploring abound across this planet, and women rock.
Good book. You go, girl.
"Those who danced were thought to be quite insane by those who could not hear the music.” Angela Monet
I was hoping to toss an update on here before the Big Day but like in many areas of my life, personal-writing time seems to be getting away from me lately. The 12 months since I stood atop Kelimutu in Flores and blew out the candle on my 40th-birthday pineapple have evaporated.
That’s a horribly North American affliction, isn’t it. I don’t even like saying it. I catch myself all-too-often these days at the end of a meal with barely a recollection of whether what I’ve just consumed was actually tasty or satisfying, or arriving someplace in my car and wondering how I’d even gotten there, on complete auto-pilot. I am desperately, painfully far from the days of lazing on my island, watching hours float past me and blend into one another somewhere far off, like mist.
I can protest and deny it all I want but the reality is that my mind is going a million miles an hour these days, in keeping with the pace of the crazy lifestyle many citizens lead here and with all that’s going on in my own erratic sphere. Clearly I’ve got somewhere to be. Can’t wait to find out where that might be, exactly.
Speaking of stuff going on, Lynn Harris is the author of an insightful and informative book entitled “Unwritten Rules: What Women Need to Know About Leading in Today’s Organizations.” The title is self-explanatory. Ms. Harris interviewed me by phone last May just a few weeks after I’d returned from my travel adventures (and was holed up at my parents’ place), with the idea of possibly including my riches-to-rags story in the “Corporate Refugees” section of her very intelligent book. Lo and behold, this rambling, unpolished, irrational journey I’m on survived the final edit, which I think makes her kind of cooler: Evidently she’s concerned with more than just colouring inside the lines, too. Hurrah!
The book is published and out there and I’m trying on the three pairs of black dress pants I kept from my former life to see if I can pull together an outfit that’s suitable for attending the book launch at Holt’s Cafe in 2 days so that I don’t look like someone who’s just been booted off Survivor, which is what I suspect some might be expecting to see, and which is kind of what I look like most days now.
I had the fortune of meeting the delightful Ms. Harris in person when I re-established myself in Montreal a few months ago. At that time she informed me that not only was my story going to appear in her book, but that it was in fact the closing story in the book. And not only was it the closing story, but links to both my blogs were being included.
!
She kindly sent me a follow-up email that included a succinct, point-form list of what the readers of her book were going to want updates on when (not “if,” she said – but, “when”) (really?) they visited my blog. The list looked something like this:
-Did you cave in and go back to your old life or did you continue to explore and pursue your aspiration of becoming a writer?
-What keeps you going on your path to a different kind of life?
-What challenges do you continue to face?
-How does it feel to start to achieve your aspiration of becoming a writer?
-Other stuff you are doing and why e.g. being car jockey
-What's happening with your "little piece of paradise" in Indonesia?
-How are others reacting to what you are doing? How does this affect you?
-What do you think of the book and the other stories?
For starters, greetings to anyone who’s visiting as a result of the bit in the book. I checked the traffic to my blog and there’s actually been some (read: more than 2 visitors) here and there, which leads me to believe that Lynn might have been right. So, hello. Welcome. I think you too are cool.
As to the points above, a few can be knocked off pretty quickly:
I’m back in Montreal and being all grown-up and independent-like and no longer “living with family”, as I was at the time the book went to print.
Check the archive links to the right for lots of blathering on about the car jockeying gig and other interesting jobs I’ve undertaken over the past several months.
The last time I checked, my island paradise was awesome. At least in my mind it is. I’m assuming the fruit trees have been planted by now (lots of assumptions get made when you live a 30-hour-flight away from your vacation property). Sam and my other friends there text me regularly and that makes me remember that it’s not all just a dream. I’ve tossed about the idea of using my line of credit to get the hut built sooner rather than later, but my gut tells me to hold off on that a bit until I can make sure I’m able to pay for a few more essential things back here at home. Sometimes a little rationality has to come into play. I know; it sucks. But Surga Cara is there, rough and hot and perfect and waiting patiently for me, with no schedule of its own.
Now, onto the harder stuff:
Did you cave in and go back to your old life or did you continue to explore and pursue your aspiration of becoming a writer?
No caving! Not yet. I avoid the corporate world like the plague and turn down all job offers that would drag me back into it. When I have to go to meetings in That World, I wear jeans. If f I do eventually “go back” - which I just may have to - it won’t be because I cave. It will be because I need money. So far though, incredibly to me, I haven’t had to visit that notion. I am writing and people are paying me to do it. It’s crazy. Oh, and the random odd jobs probably help out a bit, too.
What keeps you going on your path to a different kind of life?
Great question. Not sure. Often not sure. I guess just knowing for certain that there is a staggering amount of life to be lived and not being willing to give up on it, no matter the cost (and there is one – make no mistake). It’s super-hard, especially alone, but I’ve had the great, great fortune to have a few good friends and a mom who all have my back and who continue to act as supporters and sounding boards and voices of reason throughout it all. There are many moments when I feel as though I want to toss it all and go get me some stability in the form of a regular weekly paycheque, but they eventually pass and the adventure continues.
A friend recently divulged (when prompted by me) that she feels I’m sending mixed messages about my situation. That I talk the brave and adventurous talk but then whine about the hardship and about not having money. She’s right. It’s a rollercoaster ride full of good and bad, high days and low, cheerful and depressing, happy and sad. It’s life and there’s no black and white and I can’t apologize for that. I can maybe only talk about it less to some people.
What challenges do you continue to face?
Hoo boy. See virtually every entry of this blog over the last 10 months or so. Financial stability is obviously the major one. I’ve somehow managed to stay afloat this long and now I can even pay rent and stuff (albeit partly due to said random odd jobs and to the continued, systematic selling-off of my belongings...can that be considered income?) As is true for any new freelancer (and even some not-so-new ones I suppose), that could all change at any moment. That’s terrifying to no end, but also part of what keeps it exciting.
Then there’s loneliness, isolation, insecurity about the quality of my work, self-doubt and continuous second-guessing of my thoughts and actions, to name but a few. I also drink too much coffee.
How does it feel to start to achieve your aspiration of becoming a writer?
Surreal. Every time I get a copy writing contract I want to ask the client, “Are you sure you want to pay? Me? To do this?” But they seem to, so I just keep going and hope that they keep wanting to, too.
Working from home is indescribably amazing. The commute from my bedroom to my office is pretty short, and I live in loungewear every day and listen to jazz and drink coffee until 3 or 4 when I switch to wine. I go to the gym every morning. I push myself out the door at least one other time during the day or evening to combat the isolation and loneliness that comes with working from home. And I run. I’ve got to find more clients and fast, so that’s what I’m focusing on now.
How are others reacting to what you are doing? How does this affect you?
Not sure. Some will probably always think I’m crazy, but to my face lots of people say they think it’s pretty damned cool. The reality is that most people probably don’t think about it - or me - at all, and don’t even know what part of the world I’m in or what I’m doing, exactly.
I pretty much don’t care what anyone thinks about it. But it does make me feel good and rejuvenated when someone tells me they were inspired by my story, which just happened again recently.
I’m still thinking about writing a book and still considering doing some kind of public “talk” or presentation about my adventures. If nobody comes I will just talk anyway.
What do you think of the book and the other stories?
I loved reading the stories in the last chapter Lynn’s book about other women who have chucked it all in their own ways to search for something more meaningful and fulfilling. It reminds me of the messages contained in the life-changing encounters I had with courageous people from all over the world so very many times during my travels: we are all connected, and bravery and lives worth exploring abound across this planet, and women rock.
Good book. You go, girl.
"Those who danced were thought to be quite insane by those who could not hear the music.” Angela Monet
Thursday, December 31, 2009
New Years Present
One year ago I was holed up in a dusty, nowhere town in the middle of Laos, musing about an impending 2-day trek through the Phu Hin Bun NPA. I was worried that if nobody else signed up for the trek I’d be spending the last night of 2009 sitting around a campfire at my guesthouse with a few other disconnected backpackers who also hadn’t planned their agendas quite correctly, feeling awkward. (As it turned out the trek was a go and the evening was spent playing dominoes and drinking with the locals of a tiny, poor village, followed by sleeping on the floor of a simple hut in said village with the only two other travelers who had signed up for the trek: Jane from Australia and Sophie from France. It was purely delightful. If you’d like to read more about it, visit my travel blog . The entry is entitled “Happy New Everything”)
New Years Eve 2008: Me, Aussie Jane and Frenchie Sophie in village in Tha Khaek, Laos
I remember what promise and hope I felt for the year ahead as I lay tucked under my mosquito net in the ink-black night. How could I feel anything but pure optimism? In the space of 12 months I had spun my entire life in a dizzying 180: I’d left a 15-year career plus another job to boot; sold my home, put my stuff in storage and was now four months into the adventure of a lifetime with no end in sight. The world was truly my oyster.
Flash forward one year. My name is on the lease of a cheap, crooked old apartment in a somewhat disadvantaged area of Montreal. I am surrounded by my “things” again – a huge chunk of which I have gladly divested myself of through several more rounds of charitable donations. (You know those teeny, tiny, useless closets those old apartments have? Two of them are actually enough to house the bit of my clothing that’s survived the endless edits. ) Occasionally I get paid to write, which is still incredible to me; but I also work odd jobs to cobble together enough money to cover rent and all the other expenses one doesn’t have to worry about when in a high-end career or on a world tour, like cable and car repairs. I am going through a difficult and bewildering transition where many of my friendships are concerned, and it’s isolating and lonely and tough on the self-esteem. I don’t know what’s happening. My orbit has changed and I wasn’t prepared for that. And to top it all off, I’m still single.
So to sum it up: I have a ramshackle home in the same city I left behind, no career to speak of, no money, no boyfriend and some wonky friendships. Given all of that, it wouldn’t be hard to look upon the last half of 2009 with feelings of disappointment, disillusionment, depression. Of my adventure people seem to like to say, “Play time is over. Back to the real world, now, Cara.”
I say, go tell it to someone else.
Sure there are difficult days (and weeks. Occasionally even months.) How could there not be? No adventure comes without fear, risk, unknowns, and, yes - failures. That’s why so few embark on them.
But as I write this on the last day of 2009, I am at my sister’s home near Calgary, witnessing dawn colour the tips of the Rocky Mountains a pastel pink outside my bedroom window. I spent Christmas week here with my family, playing with my little niece and nephew and visiting with my parents and siblings. I had 2 unexpected and glorious days to reconnect with my soul sister Shauna (whom I first met on my island) at her parents’ home in Edmonton. We spoke of everything. She has gone back out into the world now, where she belongs, and where we will surely meet again; out there, somewhere.
Me, Shauna and a fully Canadian reunion: December 26, 2009
Tomorrow I will head home to Montreal and continue setting up my home office. I will not dread going back to my desk job in the corporate world, because I don’t have one of those anymore. I haven’t had one for almost two years now.
I will find some new odd jobs. Maybe at another garage. Maybe at a cafe. Maybe both.
I will exchange emails with Sam, my dear friend and the caretaker of my perfect plot of land on Gili Air, as he updates me on the progress of the fruit-tree-planting on my island paradise. Soon I will have succulent mangos, papayas, and avocados growing outside the door of my hut that I am going to build there. He will tell me about the rain.
I will continue to dream of future travel destinations - maybe trekking through New Zealand with Shauna?
Listen to me. I’m telling you.
The adventure continues.
Life is not about the knowns. Not for me; not anymore. It’s not about the security of a desk job and a paycheque and a house full of belongings and two weeks at Club Med once a year, as comforting as those things can be and have been. Comforting, but - and I must remind myself of this frequently - not the real world.
The real world is out there. It’s in the leaves of the seedling mango trees growing on my land on Gili Air. It’s in the creases in my worn map of Bangkok. It’s in the dirty hands of the children of the village in Laos who clung to my leg on New Year’s Eve 2008, begging for nothing more than attention. And it is in the faces and hearts of the people that I will meet in the odd jobs that I will do, have to do, to make money to survive.
As it should have always been, it is about the search. It is about the struggle, the desire and indeed the demand to discover and feel life in every moment of every day. To question, to seek, to find and then to seek again. Life is not in the comfort, but most certainly in the discomfort. It is not in the standing. It is in the stumble, the fall, and the getting up again.
So as I trip and stumble my way through the last day of a fantastical, difficult, transformative year, I wish you not comfort and security but life, in all its tangled glory.
Happy life. Happy New Year.
"The object of a new year is not that we should have a new year. It is that we should have a new soul.” G.K. Chesterson
New Years Eve 2008: Me, Aussie Jane and Frenchie Sophie in village in Tha Khaek, Laos
I remember what promise and hope I felt for the year ahead as I lay tucked under my mosquito net in the ink-black night. How could I feel anything but pure optimism? In the space of 12 months I had spun my entire life in a dizzying 180: I’d left a 15-year career plus another job to boot; sold my home, put my stuff in storage and was now four months into the adventure of a lifetime with no end in sight. The world was truly my oyster.
Flash forward one year. My name is on the lease of a cheap, crooked old apartment in a somewhat disadvantaged area of Montreal. I am surrounded by my “things” again – a huge chunk of which I have gladly divested myself of through several more rounds of charitable donations. (You know those teeny, tiny, useless closets those old apartments have? Two of them are actually enough to house the bit of my clothing that’s survived the endless edits. ) Occasionally I get paid to write, which is still incredible to me; but I also work odd jobs to cobble together enough money to cover rent and all the other expenses one doesn’t have to worry about when in a high-end career or on a world tour, like cable and car repairs. I am going through a difficult and bewildering transition where many of my friendships are concerned, and it’s isolating and lonely and tough on the self-esteem. I don’t know what’s happening. My orbit has changed and I wasn’t prepared for that. And to top it all off, I’m still single.
So to sum it up: I have a ramshackle home in the same city I left behind, no career to speak of, no money, no boyfriend and some wonky friendships. Given all of that, it wouldn’t be hard to look upon the last half of 2009 with feelings of disappointment, disillusionment, depression. Of my adventure people seem to like to say, “Play time is over. Back to the real world, now, Cara.”
I say, go tell it to someone else.
Sure there are difficult days (and weeks. Occasionally even months.) How could there not be? No adventure comes without fear, risk, unknowns, and, yes - failures. That’s why so few embark on them.
But as I write this on the last day of 2009, I am at my sister’s home near Calgary, witnessing dawn colour the tips of the Rocky Mountains a pastel pink outside my bedroom window. I spent Christmas week here with my family, playing with my little niece and nephew and visiting with my parents and siblings. I had 2 unexpected and glorious days to reconnect with my soul sister Shauna (whom I first met on my island) at her parents’ home in Edmonton. We spoke of everything. She has gone back out into the world now, where she belongs, and where we will surely meet again; out there, somewhere.
Me, Shauna and a fully Canadian reunion: December 26, 2009
Tomorrow I will head home to Montreal and continue setting up my home office. I will not dread going back to my desk job in the corporate world, because I don’t have one of those anymore. I haven’t had one for almost two years now.
I will find some new odd jobs. Maybe at another garage. Maybe at a cafe. Maybe both.
I will exchange emails with Sam, my dear friend and the caretaker of my perfect plot of land on Gili Air, as he updates me on the progress of the fruit-tree-planting on my island paradise. Soon I will have succulent mangos, papayas, and avocados growing outside the door of my hut that I am going to build there. He will tell me about the rain.
I will continue to dream of future travel destinations - maybe trekking through New Zealand with Shauna?
Listen to me. I’m telling you.
The adventure continues.
Life is not about the knowns. Not for me; not anymore. It’s not about the security of a desk job and a paycheque and a house full of belongings and two weeks at Club Med once a year, as comforting as those things can be and have been. Comforting, but - and I must remind myself of this frequently - not the real world.
The real world is out there. It’s in the leaves of the seedling mango trees growing on my land on Gili Air. It’s in the creases in my worn map of Bangkok. It’s in the dirty hands of the children of the village in Laos who clung to my leg on New Year’s Eve 2008, begging for nothing more than attention. And it is in the faces and hearts of the people that I will meet in the odd jobs that I will do, have to do, to make money to survive.
As it should have always been, it is about the search. It is about the struggle, the desire and indeed the demand to discover and feel life in every moment of every day. To question, to seek, to find and then to seek again. Life is not in the comfort, but most certainly in the discomfort. It is not in the standing. It is in the stumble, the fall, and the getting up again.
So as I trip and stumble my way through the last day of a fantastical, difficult, transformative year, I wish you not comfort and security but life, in all its tangled glory.
Happy life. Happy New Year.
"The object of a new year is not that we should have a new year. It is that we should have a new soul.” G.K. Chesterson
Sunday, December 20, 2009
A Charlie Brown Christmas
Christmas week, 2008: I was navigating my way down the Nam Song River in a sea kayak in Vang Vieng, Laos as the sun beat down on my curls from high above the karst mountains. Later I got lost/trapped while caving with sweet Bretchje from Sweden, who had fallen out of a moving bus onto a highway just weeks before; we then rewarded ourselves for surviving our respective brushes with disaster by rope-swinging over a teal blue lagoon at the cave base. I mountain-biked through rugged and dusty terrain, searching for and finding nothing and everything. I discovered Luang Prabang and reconnected with Charlotte and Erwan from Paris, quickly knitting the warm fabric of a lasting and dear friendship. I swam under the waterfalls with all my newfound friends. I rose before the sun on Christmas Day, shivering as I knelt on the sidewalk, waiting to give alms to the monks.
Christmas week, 2009: Small wonder the season, like so many other things around me, feels so awkward this year.
Once upon a time not very long ago, you would have been hard-pressed to find a bigger die-hard Christmas fan than I. I felt and acted “Christmassy” from the first day in November that it seemed socially acceptable (and admittedly much earlier than that within the privacy of my own home. What’s wrong with playing Bing Crosby’s “The Christmas Song” in October?) Lights were dripping from every window and doorframe of my home; a riot of garland was coiled around the stair rail outside; weeks were spent writing and revising gift lists until I was sure I had the perfect thing in mind for everyone. And of course, cookies, cookies, cookies.
The gift-giving part started its descent down the slippery slope of meaning a few years ago. My grasp began to falter. The commercial nature of it all; people lining up outside Best Buy in the middle of the night to make sure they were the first to get their hands on the door-crasher specials; everyone stressing over what to get for whom and how much to spend on it...I asked myself with greater and greater emphasis each passing year: Why? What does any of it have to do with the meaning of Christmas? Or – a depressing thought - has this become the meaning of Christmas? I felt like Charlie Brown when he went to the tree lot with Linus and was bombarded with all of the fake multicoloured, multi-material, artificial trees: “Isn’t there anyone who knows what Christmas is all about?”
Ask any kid in a Spiderman costume what the meaning of Halloween is and you’re likely to garner an incredulous glare as the little one peels off his mask just long enough to shout, “DUH.....CANDY!!!” I’ll venture a guess that nary a one (nor any adults, for that matter) would have a clue that its roots lie in the Christian holiday of All Saints and/or the Celtic festival of Samhain, with the name Halloween deriving from a 16th-century Scottish term.
Has the same thing happened to Christmas? (“DUH....PRESENTS!!!”)
Traditional gifting for me eventually morphed into a combination of making home-made treats (some of you will remember, hopefully fondly, the Irish cream and the chocolate truffles) and donating to worthy causes and organizations on behalf of others. At least these were things that made sense to me.
Last year while backpacking, my material gift-giving amounted to the mailing of five hand-painted Christmas cards made by a Bangkok artist depicting Santa chilling in a hammock in front of a traditional Thai beach bungalow. The cards astonishingly arrived at the homes of my family and friends on none other than Christmas Eve.
“Giving” last Christmas meant something different. Sticky rice to the monks (who don’t celebrate Christmas anyway). Time, sharing and caring to my new travel friends. The journey of a lifetime to myself.
Things are – I am - different now. There are no lights in my windows this year. No garland on the balcony railing. No list of gifts to buy. (There is, however, Bing Crosby still singing “The Christmas Song”, because it will always be pretty and perfect.)
You must understand I’m not being a Scrooge. This is not “bah-humbug”. More like, “bah... huh?”
I’m just quietly watching. I believe if one wants to learn and understand something old in a new light, one should try to do so from a position of neutrality and objectivity. And so I float above the fray of North American holiday madness, observing it like I observed the Muslims celebrating Mawlid in Indonesia: Something foreign, unrelated to me; curious and often confusing in its traditions and customs.
I’m not a particularly religious person, but I am spiritual... yet the spirit of Christmas eludes me. Curious to understand more, I googled “Christmas spirit” and “definition”. Wikipedia offered up this gem: “The Christmas Spirit is a Christmas album and seventeenth album by country singer Johnny Cash, released on Columbia Records in November 1963 (see 1963 in music). It contains four original Christmas songs written by Cash and eight tracks originally penned by other artists, including "Blue Christmas", "Silent Night" and "Little Drummer Boy".
Sigh.
In a few days I’ll be boarding a plane out west to spend the holidays with my whole family. It’s the first time in ten years that we will all be together on Christmas. I will catch up with my sister and my brother; I will play with my niece and nephew and watch the magic of the season fill their eyes and take over their little bodies; I will get up to silliness with my mother, as always.
I think that there, amidst the crumpled paper, commotion and cookies, lies what I might come to understand to be Christmas Spirit. My sister's home is good that way.
Although I am 13,000 km from where I was a year ago geographically and as a person much farther away than that, this Christmas is identical to last year’s in one important way: I will give with my heart.
Wishing you all a Christmas full of spirit and meaning.
“To perceive Christmas through its wrapping becomes more difficult with every year” E.B. White
Christmas week, 2009: Small wonder the season, like so many other things around me, feels so awkward this year.
Once upon a time not very long ago, you would have been hard-pressed to find a bigger die-hard Christmas fan than I. I felt and acted “Christmassy” from the first day in November that it seemed socially acceptable (and admittedly much earlier than that within the privacy of my own home. What’s wrong with playing Bing Crosby’s “The Christmas Song” in October?) Lights were dripping from every window and doorframe of my home; a riot of garland was coiled around the stair rail outside; weeks were spent writing and revising gift lists until I was sure I had the perfect thing in mind for everyone. And of course, cookies, cookies, cookies.
The gift-giving part started its descent down the slippery slope of meaning a few years ago. My grasp began to falter. The commercial nature of it all; people lining up outside Best Buy in the middle of the night to make sure they were the first to get their hands on the door-crasher specials; everyone stressing over what to get for whom and how much to spend on it...I asked myself with greater and greater emphasis each passing year: Why? What does any of it have to do with the meaning of Christmas? Or – a depressing thought - has this become the meaning of Christmas? I felt like Charlie Brown when he went to the tree lot with Linus and was bombarded with all of the fake multicoloured, multi-material, artificial trees: “Isn’t there anyone who knows what Christmas is all about?”
Ask any kid in a Spiderman costume what the meaning of Halloween is and you’re likely to garner an incredulous glare as the little one peels off his mask just long enough to shout, “DUH.....CANDY!!!” I’ll venture a guess that nary a one (nor any adults, for that matter) would have a clue that its roots lie in the Christian holiday of All Saints and/or the Celtic festival of Samhain, with the name Halloween deriving from a 16th-century Scottish term.
Has the same thing happened to Christmas? (“DUH....PRESENTS!!!”)
Traditional gifting for me eventually morphed into a combination of making home-made treats (some of you will remember, hopefully fondly, the Irish cream and the chocolate truffles) and donating to worthy causes and organizations on behalf of others. At least these were things that made sense to me.
Last year while backpacking, my material gift-giving amounted to the mailing of five hand-painted Christmas cards made by a Bangkok artist depicting Santa chilling in a hammock in front of a traditional Thai beach bungalow. The cards astonishingly arrived at the homes of my family and friends on none other than Christmas Eve.
“Giving” last Christmas meant something different. Sticky rice to the monks (who don’t celebrate Christmas anyway). Time, sharing and caring to my new travel friends. The journey of a lifetime to myself.
Things are – I am - different now. There are no lights in my windows this year. No garland on the balcony railing. No list of gifts to buy. (There is, however, Bing Crosby still singing “The Christmas Song”, because it will always be pretty and perfect.)
You must understand I’m not being a Scrooge. This is not “bah-humbug”. More like, “bah... huh?”
I’m just quietly watching. I believe if one wants to learn and understand something old in a new light, one should try to do so from a position of neutrality and objectivity. And so I float above the fray of North American holiday madness, observing it like I observed the Muslims celebrating Mawlid in Indonesia: Something foreign, unrelated to me; curious and often confusing in its traditions and customs.
I’m not a particularly religious person, but I am spiritual... yet the spirit of Christmas eludes me. Curious to understand more, I googled “Christmas spirit” and “definition”. Wikipedia offered up this gem: “The Christmas Spirit is a Christmas album and seventeenth album by country singer Johnny Cash, released on Columbia Records in November 1963 (see 1963 in music). It contains four original Christmas songs written by Cash and eight tracks originally penned by other artists, including "Blue Christmas", "Silent Night" and "Little Drummer Boy".
Sigh.
In a few days I’ll be boarding a plane out west to spend the holidays with my whole family. It’s the first time in ten years that we will all be together on Christmas. I will catch up with my sister and my brother; I will play with my niece and nephew and watch the magic of the season fill their eyes and take over their little bodies; I will get up to silliness with my mother, as always.
I think that there, amidst the crumpled paper, commotion and cookies, lies what I might come to understand to be Christmas Spirit. My sister's home is good that way.
Although I am 13,000 km from where I was a year ago geographically and as a person much farther away than that, this Christmas is identical to last year’s in one important way: I will give with my heart.
Wishing you all a Christmas full of spirit and meaning.
“To perceive Christmas through its wrapping becomes more difficult with every year” E.B. White
Thursday, December 17, 2009
The Wanderer
I realize now why everything feels so wonky and weird around me - my space, my friends, my skin...
Travel is the answer.
I am not meant to sit still. I am meant to travel.
I am not of this apartment, of this street, of this city. My heart and mind live out in the world now, and there is so much of it yet to discover. I have taken but a tiny bite of a corner of one sliver of a pie of unfathomable proportions, and it has left me famished. I need more.
I think I finally understand that this is why I can't get comfortable with anything since my return. It's like trying to wear someone else's skin.
For now, I will put my head down and work; do what I need to do. Save what money I can.
And then, I will leave again.
“Once you have traveled, the voyage never ends, but is played out over and over again in the quiestest chambers. The mind can never break off from the journey.” Pat Conroy
Travel is the answer.
I am not meant to sit still. I am meant to travel.
I am not of this apartment, of this street, of this city. My heart and mind live out in the world now, and there is so much of it yet to discover. I have taken but a tiny bite of a corner of one sliver of a pie of unfathomable proportions, and it has left me famished. I need more.
I think I finally understand that this is why I can't get comfortable with anything since my return. It's like trying to wear someone else's skin.
For now, I will put my head down and work; do what I need to do. Save what money I can.
And then, I will leave again.
“Once you have traveled, the voyage never ends, but is played out over and over again in the quiestest chambers. The mind can never break off from the journey.” Pat Conroy
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