I've been stumbling, but feel like I'm happily in the right direction. Right now I'm looking forward to an 8 hour run in beautiful New Paltz, am tired from surfing and being buried in the sand. I could go to the CHERYL parties tonight and dance - but I think I'll head to bed. I could go to The Habitat and chat with my favourite bartenders and have some delicious drinks. I could call up Rachelle and take Polaroid kissing photos with her. I could write, I could dance, I could take my cat on a walk. But I'm headed to sleep.
Remembering who I am is so important. Sometimes, you forget. Like every time I travel, I remember, "Wait. Life is not about cube walls and deadlines for things don't matter and washing your floor until it shines and bitching at people in the laundromat. It's about self-discovery and helping people and learning and sharing." And that's why I love traveling.
Next up, I hope to do a jaunt around Central America at the end of the year. Sometimes I question why I do what I do - and wonder do I need to be doing something else? Is this not fulfilling? I mean, where's my condo and Disneyland vacations? That's not what I want, though. I want Burning Man and hot pink fake fur bikinis and being buried in sand on the beach and drinking too-strong delicious margaritas and closing my eyes but knowing I'm going after what I want.
Traveling in Berlin, I met an incredible Englishman who is always full of insight. Chris emailed me this recently after reading my blog,
Oh, and I read a couple of your posts ruminating on the greener grass of your sister's picket fence life and the challenges of the fluid parade of your freer city life, the non profit salary et al...and I say that reading your blog, I'm reading about someone who is living a life unencumbered by the old nonsense of conventional expectation. You spend, it would seem, an inordinate proportion of your time doing something that you love dearly; composing the orchestra of your thoughts with eyes on that unwavering horizon, measured by the unimpeachable rhythm of your feet hitting the ground. I am handsomely paid for my prolonged days of misery, writing muscles atrophied, harnessed inextricably to the moribund conveyor belt of the life that pays for picket fences.
So it reaffirms my belief I'm doing the right thing. Chris, thanks, and remember, it's not too late. Come to the U.S., I'll take you to a baseball game and we'll dance until the skyline is blurred. Chase your dreams, whatever they are, always.