Month: July 2013

  • On Going Home


    Here I am. London Heathrow International Airport. 1:11pm. Twenty-three degrees Celsius. Gray skies.  Eleven months, 21 countries, one visa problem and one stomach bug ago I set out for my “year”-long journey. My goals? To explore. To learn. To play.  I didn’t want to change the world. And more importantly, I didn’t want to change.  I wasn’t seeking enlightenment, wisdom or self-improvement.  I didn’t go abroad “to find myself” in the Himalayas, and I didn’t travel to discover the secret of life in that elusive elsewhere.
    Nonetheless, I did search. And in the clear blue skies of the Himalayas, in the phosphorescent seas of Cambodia, in the jagged black rocks of Sicily and in the cosmopolitan bustle of Berlin, Bangkok and Belgrade I found answers.  Truth, beauty and joy. In the winding, tangential, abstract manner beloved of Buddhist scriptures and Beat poetry, the world answered me. Like a garrulous friend who prattles on without encouragement, the faces and places I encountered over the last 11 months have taught me so much more than I could or would have asked of them.
    I will return in much the same condition I left.  Zero piercings, tattoos, or drastic hairstyle changes. A few barely-visible scars. I don’t know if I look or sound like someone who has spent the last year traveling.  I don’t know what such a person is supposed to look like.  I don’t have any brilliant conclusions to offer.  I am less certain of what I want to be doing than I was before starting this trip—whatever I found, it wasn’t direction.  At this moment I mostly feel bewildered. Where am I going now?
    I’m going home. I guess. I’m flying to Boston, where I grew up. But since my parents moved to London while I was away, one could argue that I’ve actually just spent the last two weeks “home” here in London. Since I’ve lived and studied in Vermont, and spent a good portion of my summers there, I generally call it home now. And yet it doesn’t feel quite complete.
    Home is wherever there are people who love and care about you, and those people are spread out across the globe for me. Home is where you feel welcome and comfortable, and I have felt at home after one day at a Rainbow Gathering in the mountains of Sicily, after one evening with an old friend in Hamburg, after two days with like-minded people in India. When it came time for my parents to sell the house I grew up in, I was somewhere in Southeast Asia and I felt… indifferent. As much as I had loved that house, it was only that: a house. Walls and a floor, paint colors I had helped choose and rooms upon rooms of memories, yes, but just wood and paint after all.  I realized that I had begun to carry “home” with me.  Home was my body. Home was the network of friends, family and strangers that stretched out in a shimmering web to catch me where and if I needed them. Home was laughter, handmade bread, and warmth—home was everywhere and anywhere I wanted it to be.
    You could say I’m going back, then, I suppose.  But back to what? To “normal” life? As if this year were somehow removed from the rest of my life, a collection of adventures on which I will look back with longing and nostalgia, which will sustain me as I spend the next several decades sitting behind a cubicle desk speaking with belligerent self-importance of my year abroad. Hate to break it to you, but this is my reality. Truth, beauty, and joy are not temporary ideals, applicable only to some fantasy alternate life with an expiration date; they are a worldview, an optimism and a set of values by which I will, hopefully, continue to live, be it traveling abroad, studying, working, at “home” and “away.”
    So no, I am not going back.  I am continuing a journey that is not defined by national boundaries, a search that is not defined by questions, and an adventure that is not circumstantial, but inherent.  This life is an adventure and a journey, full of the potential for truth, beauty and joy. That is neither a secret nor an answer; it is my own personal conviction.
    I am going back to the United State with a broken backpack full of dirty clothes and not much else.  I am going back to one of the many places I choose to call home. The answers and the secrets can wait; I have never felt more content—full of joy and gratitude—and that is enough for me.
    “Home”-made pizza in Sicily.
    Home on my mat.
    Feeling at home in my hammock, Don Det, Laos.

  • Three, Two, One, BUNGEE


    (Sorry, Mom—I know I promised I wouldn’t, but I really think you should be proud of me.)
    “Do one thing a day that scares you.”  The words run repeatedly along the length of my teal blue yoga strap, which, wrapped around my yoga mat, has accompanied me throughout my journey.  Each morning when I unroll my mat they greet me boldly, all capitals—a challenge, maybe.  But usually I smile and take them as an affirmation because, well, I’m trying my best.
    I try, but it’s not always easy.  I hate talking on the phone, but it doesn’t scare me.  I dislike ants and spiders, but we’ve come to an understanding and coexist quite peacefully; they don’t scare me either.  As I travel I seek out situations that challenge me—accepting an invitation to a dinner party in Biella, Italy full of Italian speakers I had never met, for example—to test my mutability, adaptability and flexibility.  I repeatedly throw myself at the universe and marvel at the endless variety of ways in which she catches me.  I am rarely scared.
    On Sunday, July 7, the straps of my safety harness wrapped around my billowing teal pants (Toby Pants, of course) as I stood at the center of the Colossus bridge, 152 meters above the ground at Veglio, Northern Italy.  A spectacular scenery of forested green mountains surrounded the small group of spectators.  The three o’clock sun heated my shoulders.  I watched as one after another the people ahead of me jumped, arms out “like Superman.”  When my turn came and I climbed the metal steps to the edge of the bridge, nothing but an elastic cord attached to a carabiner at my ankles, I was scared.
    “Sei pronta?” Gianluca asked me, grinning casually after ten years of facilitating this bizarre and exhilarating activity.  “Si,” I responded, though I was hardly convinced.  I had closed my eyes and imagined leaping out into the air at least twenty times since calling the bungee center several days prior, but I was nonetheless terrified—terrified of jumping, and even more terrified of not jumping.
    “Alza le braccia.”  I lifted my arms.  “THREE,”  I think my heart stopped beating.  “TWO,” I bent my knees. If I don’t go now, I never will– the thought jumped spontaneously into my consciousness and before I could think further I leapt on “ONE.” At “BUNGEE,” where one usually jumps, I was already in free-fall, accelerating towards a speed of 28 meters per second.
    The scream that wrenched from my throat could probably be described as blood-curdling; it was certainly as close to primordial as I have ever come.  I had thought jumping would be the scariest part.  Wrong.  The first two seconds of my fall, as I felt the uninhibited force of gravity act on my body, I think adrenaline blocked all other brain functions.  Then, the following few seconds, I managed to process the sight of treetops rushing toward me at blinding speed, the sound of air whooshing past my ears, the pressure of wind against my cheeks.  My scream morphed into a whoop of elation.  Next, as I reached the full length of the cord, the elastic caught me, pulled me to a stop, and flung me upwards.  Twice I rebounded high, my body hung suspended for a moment in mid-air, my heart in my mouth, and I flew…
    I pulled myself upright, a feat which proved more physically challenging than jumping, and the woman at the landing platform pulled me back to solid ground.  As I walked (and skipped) along the trail back to the road I felt exhilarated, jubilant, and, especially, satisfied.  Satisfied because I couldn’t think of anything more terrifying than jumping of a 150 meter bridge, and I had done it.  I had taken a fear and alchemized it into a thrilling experience.  I had physically embodied my policy of leaping at the universe.  The elastic cord, like optimism and openness, had turned a free-fall into flight.
    To clarify: bungee jumping is not scary because it is dangerous.  In over 60 thousand jumps and 20 years of experience, the Bungee Center at Veglio has never had an accident.  As extreme sports go, bungee jumping is extremely safe.  Our instincts are not so rational, however, and to voluntarily jump one must override a very basic fear and instinctual reluctance.  I am not really a thrill seeker—I don’t like cliff jumping, skiing on ice, driving fast, or otherwise putting my body in danger.  This probably won’t become a regular activity for me; however, I might choose to repeat the experience, or something similar, just to remind myself that I can.  Because even after the fact I can barely believe that I really jumped.  I had trouble falling asleep that night as the memory of treetops speeding towards me replayed in my mind.  I no longer felt scared though- only elated.  I had done something that truly scared me, and it rocked.
    If you want to see it, the lovely people at Veglio were kind enough to film my jump for me, and it’s posted here: https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?v=10200301434598511.
    Do one thing a day that scares you- try it! 🙂
    ~