The Journey of a Thousand Miles...

...Begins with a Single Step

I read these words inside my sister's senior yearbook when I was in fifth grade. I guess it was my first "quote," the first time I saw words as both artistic and practical and as timeless tools that could help me if I understood their implications. 

Procrastination, an infirmity that had already planted its seed in my endeavors, was something I knew I would have to battle if I were ever to see my dreams come true, and these words were a bit of an indictment and warning to me--until I actually used them. Once applied, these words helped me break down my fears, which I believe all procrastination is rooted in, and helped me approach tasks just a little more methodically and easily, the success of which would eventually give me the courage to keep on the trek when things actually became difficult.

But the bigger word here is Journey, and a long, possibly arduous journey at that, which could reap many rewards.  It might have been these words that solidified the only dream I ever had, which put my entire being into a single word, an essence: Journey.  

I dreamed of places I’d go, and things I’d be. I wanted to go to Yugoslavia, Okinawa, and Austria, and inside the torch of the Statue of Liberty. As for career, I never dreamed of being a nurse or teacher or lawyer. I wanted to own a record store, and have a resident cat and golden retriever, and a parrot who could sing all the rock standards. I would wear jeans and a bandana everyday and know all my customers by name, and get musicians to perform in my store. I wanted to live somewhere warm so I could ride my skateboard to work. This was 1979, so I’m proud to say I was ahead of my time in terms of being green, even if my other dreams were dashed by war and technology. I briefly wanted to be a physical therapist, a psychiatrist, and a cruise director, the latter of which was dashed when it looked as if evening gowns would be part of my daily wardrobe, if I were to believe what I saw on The Love Boat. I wanted to live in an old apartment over a store on an old city block and have plants on the window sills and beads in the arched doorways.

I just started buying records again to replace the collection I foolishly surrendered to Half Price Books in the mid-nineties when I was moving for the eighth time is six years. I live in a big house in the suburbs and never had a cool apartment (although I do have some really cool beaded curtains I bought in Turkey). I have a good job in a big corporation that neither stresses nor inspires me. I have found a bit of success as a writer, but when I say “bit” I mean “really really wee bit.” I always said that if my day job didn’t exhaust me for my passions then I was doing fine, in fact, great. All these years of adulthood I’ve considered myself lucky that I can support myself and lead a full productive life that starts after 5 pm. I had love and marriage and lost them both, and nowadays I tell myself I am lucky that I never had mommy dreams as a child. I have traveled the world, lived on foreign soil, slept in palaces in Europe, bamboo huts in Thailand, canvas tents in Africa and Saudi Arabia, and shanties in Honduras. I have seen America and much of its splendor, but not nearly enough. 

When I was in ninth grade, there was a popular song that had a beautiful sentiment but had such a sappy sound that I was embarrassed to actually like it. The chorus was "I've been to paradise, but I've never been to me."

I'm 44, and I'm kind of in the adolescence of my adulthood. I find myself confused, rebellious, melancholy, and often dissatisfied with my own nest that I built myself and am questioning rules I've created for myself. A couple of brave peers of mine are packing up and starting over, carte blanche, sight unseen, full of dreams and fear and above all commitment. They've sold off their possessions, uprooted themselves, and opened themselves up to be a canvas for the universe to make its indelible mark. Or, wait, is the universe their canvas, waiting for their indelible mark?

Indelible. See, at our age, the stakes are higher, because most of us enjoyed the fruits of our labor, paid our dues, and have found comfort in the life we've chosen. Anything we do now will definitely have a lifelong impact, and we have more to lose than we did say, at 23. Or is that just one of the rules we've instigated: anything we've earned, we must not ever lose.  

But what are my "things?" I've had the luxury my entire life of not being materialistic. I admire the beautifully appointed and decorated homes of some of my successful friends, and while I could afford many of the same luxuries, I have no interest in investing the time it would take to decorate. I also have a suspicion that doing so would not ultimately bring me any joy. Sometimes in my home, after a stressful day or an extended period of time away, what I do feel is a sense of satisfaction, as I sink into my purple couch, my feet propped up on orange ottomans, my cat in my lap, my dog at my feet, and think that life could not better.

I realize now what this picture represents. It represents "cozy." And "cozy" means "safe." And "safe" means "secure." And when I feel secure I feel success.

Sometimes this success in security brings me tremendous joy and satisfaction, but I’ve noticed a pattern. I only feel this way, or rather only allow myself to feel that way, after completing an excruciating creative project, and after a few days of rest and bliss, I am back to restless. 

I think back on the ways I used to fill my time to convince myself I was living the good life, and I don’t miss those days, and count my blessings that I moved on. What these experiences offered was a fun diversion. What they didn’t offer was a meaningful essence. The creative projects I have endeavored have brought me an essence that most people only dream about. I can say this because I used to one of those people who was driven to depression and fear because I was not creating.

But lately, I feel change afoot, and I cannot name it. Am I to move and set down new roots? Am I to grow wings and rest in the sand only briefly? Am I to search for a new career? Am I to change the direction of my creative passion?

The changes were brought on by changes in personal relationships. I have assessed the damage, noted my contribution, and have resolved to do better next time. The loneliness and loss I feel, however, has not been such an easy guest to evict. I realize the power is mine to bid loneliness goodbye, to stop asking why, and to accept others’ decisions. But I’m not doing so well at that, and I am left wondering if that dissatisfaction is driving the winds of change that I am either feeling or am imagining. 

The truth is, I don’t know if moving away and starting over is a viable option for me. A few members of my immediate family and four of my nieces and nephews live within half a day's driving distance. I am not sure I could break my only connection to the only family who has remained in my life. I'm enjoying watching my nieces and nephews grow up, and I'm enjoying getting to know my brother as an adult, and learning to connect with him even though we have polar opposite political beliefs, has been a fulfilling endeavor. I also find comfort in being able to go home anytime I want. In happy times, I explore the beautiful beaches, ravines, and dunes and feel blessed. In sad times, I explore the same beautiful places and remember that life is worth the hassle. The beauty of this place is virtually unsurpassed of anything I've seen the world over, so I do feel very connected to this land and want to be able to reach it anytime I want, to be able to just drop everything at a moment's notice. I've even considered buying some property there so that I'll always have a place to go, even after my parents are gone. It's strange. Most people where I live now are from here, but I've never heard of them feeling connected to the land. I actually feel connected to the soil on which my feet learned to walk, and I sense this is a rare feeling, so I want to keep it close.

While some people can drop everything to pursue their dreams, my creative endeavors have never come close to paying all my bills. They have afforded me some lovely trips, but they cannot be looked upon as income by any means. Jobs are scarce, and I have a good one that most days causes me no stress that I can’t turn off at 5 pm. I also have a solid committed and deeply fulfilling romantic relationship here, and I cannot count on that person being able or necessarily wanting to follow me. I also have artistic connections here that I don’t have in other cities. And finally and probably most important: I am afraid. Of the unknown. Of finding connections. Of making true friends. Would I move to a big exciting city only to sit alone every night? Would I find my way into parties? Most likely. But would I make connections, the meaningful connections I so desire? I don’t know. I thought I had made many friendships here when I moved here, but very few of them have been true. This hurts me more than I care to admit, and therein lies the problem. Did I choose poorly? Did I expect too much? Can I learn to expect less of other people and more of myself?

But a long time ago, I learned this little trick about gaining confidence. It’s called “taking the first step.” Navigating the winds of change I think I’m feeling will certainly be a journey. My goal is to stand firm in those winds, to not blow away and tumble into more diversions of temporary amusement. I know this much. I want more. I want more from myself and I want deeper connections with people, and both of things start with me.

So with the winds swirling around me, I am digging in, and I am going on a journey with my feet firmly in place. I am going to journey where I am, on familiar soil to find new terrains and vistas, and mostly to journey to my truest self, this journey of a thousand miles. My footsteps will be marked in honesty. Even when honesty is hard to look in the eye and makes me look bad. The only way I know how to stay on this course is to document it.

This is my journey. My Journey in Place.
 
One other thing, I plan to document my journey with the Photo 365--a photograph every day--project.

Sunshine on my shoulder in my rear view mirror. Bike riding my neighborhood on a balmy November day, perhaps my last ride of the year.