Another Reason I Travel

When I go to a new place, there is always this little dream that I will be a new person. This place, and these people, have never met me. They know nothing of my history or my shadow side. In this new place, I've never screwed up, made anyone angry, let anyone down, failed at a project, said something awkward,  made a bad entrance or exit.

There's always the hope that I will leave behind my irritating habits, my little obsessions, and my prejudices. Maybe I will arrive in this foreign place minus my fears and painful memories. Maybe here I will exhibit more hope and act more graciously.

We received Nala's ashes yesterday--Nala is the dog we had to euthanize two weeks ago--and I had to pack last night so did not open the box. But I did this morning, and I wept many tears for my Baby Girl and placed her on the shelf next to Buddy's canister of ashes. I held Little Buddha the cat and could feel the sorrow welling up. I'm sort of crazy to leave my good home for 10 days to go get lost in a strange place by myself.

I have the habit of touching the center of Jim's chest and saying to him, "This is my home." Because I have such a home, I am free to go do crazy things. And I do try to arrive at my destination as if this is a fresh place, a clean slate. But of course I am still me, and I bring the whole person on this ride. And although there's a lot I'd like to shake off my shoes--the mistakes and bad habits, things I wish I'd never said--I know you can't shake free of the history you don't like without losing bits of what you love.

So I travel to get a fresh start, much as I get out of bed every morning and consider that today I might be more merciful and less fearful, more courageous and less judgmental. There's an Old Testament verse I love that proclaims: "God's mercies are new every morning." I trust that this is true in the place I have worn smooth with my presence, this home of many years. I suppose it will be true as well off in England, where I hope to be walking very soon.

One Reason I Travel

I travel to get away from my stuff. I mean material stuff that requires upkeep, cleaning, sorting, improving, and putting away. It seems that forty percent of my time at home involves walking stuff from one room to another—dirty laundry to the basement and clean laundry back into drawers and closets; books back onto shelves; dishes to the sink or the cabinets; garden implements back to the shed. It fairly traumatizes me to explain in detail the long trail most paper travels in my house. Paper carries so much important information, and it is just so irritating to deal with. You have to read it, understand it, and respond in some way—pay the bill, call the number—and then you have to file the damn thing. Because if you don’t file papers, they have sex with one another and within days there are piles and piles of bastard papers, all over the house.

So, a travel vacation is a way to leave most of that behind. When I travel, I can choose which stuff I want to keep up with—and then leave the rest of it and not think of it at all while I’m away. That bowl that got left on the porch—it is not anywhere in my consciousness when I’m out to dinner in a fresh little town. The papers that remain un-filed and procreating—in my heart they are filed away in a dark place where there’s not enough light to read by. Thus they are unimportant, forgotten.

I used to take too much stuff with me when I traveled. You know—all the back issues of magazines I needed to read, the cards and letters I had yet to answer. I kid you not: I have on more than one occasion thrown all the paper into a grocery sack to read and sort on the passenger side of the car while my husband drove and tried not to engage with a wife intent on bringing all her office stress with her.

I used to haul a laptop everywhere and files of multiple writing projects I might suddenly return to—the novel whose plot problems I could finally diagnose, or the poetry I’d not felt compelled to edit seriously for the past decade.

Back when I was slim and enjoyed wearing clothes, I packed too many things to wear, because who knew what mood I would be in when we walked down by the river or went out to eat or took a tour? A person needed lots of options. Same goes for make-up and things that go with hair, and jewelry.

I’m about to be away from home for ten days. There will be no laptop, no magazines, no letters to answer, no paperwork to sort. Maybe I’ll take a book. I have three pairs of pants and five shirts, a jacket, the pair of shoes I’ll wear on the plane and the other pair of shoes I’ll pack, both pairs meant for walking. I cannot really express how jubilant I am about having so little stuff along. Of course, the journal goes, one I bought just for this trip, and two pens. One necklace bearing three bits of gold: a cross, an Arabic coffeepot, and my wedding ring (my hands swell, so I rarely wear the ring on my finger).

Half the reason I travel is to travel light.

The Perils of Pre-Travel Paranoia (Part 2)

In shopping for the upcoming trip, I tried not to go overboard, although the Magellan and Travelsmith catalogs make this difficult. Bought a small and sturdy umbrella and a wallet made of some type of metal that will help prevent identity theft. I needed a new carry-on suitcase anyway, so that purchase will benefit me for another 10 years. Also needed jeans and a warm-weather shirt. So, I tell myself—because it's myself who needs convincing—this is not frivolous spending. The mini toothbrush, battery operated, will be a sort of test run for a permanent toothbrush of that sort. The gps will become a lifelong companion because I see no indications that aging triggers a dormant sense of direction.

When I was growing up, there were no vacations—none that involved travel, anyway. I have always felt that travel vacations were proof that I had made it to the more stable category of middle-class American. Nowadays, overseas vacations feel more like something only wealthy people do, and I struggle to believe wholeheartedly that I should even take this trip when the money could have done more noble things in this world. Yet, my desire won over altruism, so here I am. And every purchase is weighed in regard to long-term usefulness. And already I am thinking about the tree surgery we just learned must be done and how much it’s going to cost, and I’m planning to return stateside with x amount of money unspent on tours and trinkets and too much frivolous food.

I don’t even ask the question, Would Jesus walk the Cotswolds? I cannot compute such matters and don’t want to. Am a bit wary of such questions plopped in the middle of a time and context far removed from the Nazarene’s. All I can do is refuse to enjoy the maximum level of purposeless fun and leisure. Yeah, this is how guilt-ridden religious people do “vacation.”

And another thing. Even though I have worked out with weights—regularly and without joy—since last November, and even though I’m walking much more and have cut back on portion size, it appears that I will not arrive in the English countryside slim and suddenly attractive. This is a disappointment. At least I haven’t grown any larger. And I do have, let’s see, three more days to work on this. More on this topic Thursday.

The Perils of Pre-Travel Paranoia (Part 1)

The trouble with a long-planned-for trip, at least for me, is that I have more time to become freaked out about it. I bought the tour months ago, the plane fare months ago, have pre-paid for hotels at both ends of the tour, have even bought in advance train tickets from Heathrow to Paddington Station and then from Paddington Station our to Cheltenham. I have saved enough money to have a bit of cushion. Have done basic research on each town, have bought an inexpensive phone that will work in the UK. I even bought a device that will take photos and then post them on the Web (Kindle Fire—makes me feel quite extravagant).

Other than studying in detail the histories of the sites and recording names and addresses of all possible places I might want to visit, I have done about all the prep work there is to do. At one point I realized that, thanks to Google street view, I could actually take a virtual walking tour before I took the walking tour, but that just seemed crazy.

A friend sent me a link to an article about how we’re actually happier while we’re planning and anticipating a vacation than we usually are when we are on the vacation. Well, I didn’t need to hear that. Planning and anticipating has stirred up much anxiety; and now I can expect to feel worse? The point was that a person should enjoy the planning as part of the event, and I suppose I should give myself to this. I prefer to live in the present, to be fully where I am, and in a way it seems like poor stewardship to spend many hours in the planning of this. There is no guarantee that the trip will happen—illness or injury, a death, or some catastrophe . . . Would be a shame to invest in something that does not come to pass.

You have to consider that the longed-for journey might come to pass but also kill you by way of a plane crash or some freak accident involving a bog and a flashlight that stops working. Jim and I had a gift certificate to a really nice restaurant, so I decided we should go ahead and use it before I leave. I have tempered my impulse to sort and clean the entire house before my departure. But I did decide to tackle the writing room and office. If I die on the trip, I don’t want Jim overwhelmed with all our paperwork.

I will not, however, try to visit my mother prior to departure, because that would involve a long journey by car, and who knows what might happen. Stay tuned.

I Am Going on a Journey

On May 31, early Saturday evening, I will board a plane to fly the Atlantic, land in Dublin, board a smaller plane, and arrive in London on June 1. After a day and night there, I will ride a train out into the Cotswold countryside and embark upon a six-day walking trip from town to town and inn to inn. My one small suitcase will be transported for me to each lodging; I’ll walk with my daypack along roads and lanes, through fields and towns.

I’m going alone because my husband is not as crazy about walking as I am. And, frankly, we can’t afford for both of us to do this, and I’m the one who has had the longing for this adventure for quite some time.

I’m going alone because my life is full and my heart is weary, and I think it may be a healing act to walk at my own slow pace and drink in the scenes, tastes, sounds, smells, and textures of a lovely place. My introverted self can hardly wait for the solitude. My anxiety-prone self is giddy with fear at the loose-endedness of this endeavor. I was born without any sense of direction whatever, and the detailed directions I’ve been given read suspiciously like the directions one might receive from an old man sitting on his porch, back in the rural landscape of my hometown. You go through this gate, not that one; travel along the racetrack and then veer off on this other lane; follow a certain waymark; walk the path that will take you along a certain ridge . . . May angels walk alongside, before, and behind me, and simply shuffle me where I need to go and get me to the next town before nightfall.

There will be three or four more blogposts before the journey begins. When I am on the road, who knows? I am now equipped with a Kindle Fire that takes photos and should connect to whatever wifi is available in inns, pubs, or tea shops. If you check in and see a photo or two with a caption or two—that’s probably as much as you’ll get from me. This journey is for me, my present to myself in the middle of my fifties. I will journal, but for me, not for an audience. Sometimes I think that writing for an audience can siphon the best energy from the creative life.

However, you may find subsequent posts entertaining, as I delve into the Perils of Pre-travel Paranoia.

Most Mornings of This World

Let me tell my truth. Most mornings of this world, I awaken and feel, first of all, the weight of existence. Weight like a burden more than a blessing. It aches to be conscious. I lie there and think, I need to go through this day. I think about it and decide that, yes, I will go through the day. Usually, this interior conversation is shrouded in sadness.

Once out of bed, the works are started, like an old clock winding up, and the day does what it does, and I land at the end of it very tired and still sad.

It took awhile to understand, to see, that this is in fact my response to any given day. It wasn't always like this, not at all. But for months it has been like this. Existence--something I am desperate to maintain but that feels so heavy, so difficult.

I was never a sleeper as a kid or teenager. Slept a few hours, then was ready to go do things. Much of the time they were interior sorts of things, such as reading or writing or just being outdoors. But there was this feeling of action, of being swept up in the world in a good way. That continued through college, overseas work, then a long career in publishing. Always being swept into the day, with things to do, words to write, places to be. The memories of these former seasons let me know that something has changed. The inner compass has shifted. Or, maybe it's not a compass at all, just a pointer jiggling incessantly as though distressed and distracted.

There it is. Nothing momentous or desperate. And thus far, I have no conclusions about it. An idea here and there--a hunch or two. But for now, wait, pay attention. Watch and ponder.

What Merits Repeating

It's Sunday afternoon, and I should be writing because I have publicly committed to writing on this new blog on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays. Saturday flew by and so now I am amending the commitment to Tuesdays, Thursdays, and "the weekends." I'm trying to make this more enjoyable by sitting on the backyard swing with a fresh pot of tea. On the swing with me is Bones the cat, who cares nothing about my blogging life but knows to savor a swing in the sun when he can.

How do we come to this conviction that we must compose things for people to read? Does this grow out of a sense of giftedness or calling? Is it a dutiful response to others' expectations because I've been an editor, writer, and blogger a long time now, and this is simply what I do?

Or do I write to make meaning, to feel significant, to be valued?

Expressing anything in written language nearly always magnifies it. I can end a sleepless night by going to an all-night grocery, and all I'm doing is running an errand because I can't sleep. However, I might later write:

"I went shopping at dawn, the morning wet and the tired aisles ceaselessly bright. I bought mushrooms mainly because they looked beautiful to me."

--and I have transformed a nearly meaningless event into a "reflection" or a "scene" or perhaps with some work later, into a poem.

I look at this one way and it appears that I have found beauty in the mundane. I have practiced mindfulness or gratitude; I have tapped into grace.

I look at this another way, and it appears that I have blown an experience out of proportion, making myself seem wise and my mundane moment filled with significance when, really, it's not.

I don't even have to wax poetic to distort an experience; all I must do is speak it to another person or write it for public record--and instantly the thing is bigger than it is.

After a point, writing can thus become an exercise in pride and self-importance. It's a way of asserting myself, of trying to command others' attention. I am not comforatable with this. In fact, a lot of writing these days--whether my own or others' --just makes me weary. We are all trying so hard to be heard, to make history, or at least to make a dent.

It's probably better for everyone if I devote less time to throwing words out there and more time to enjoying the tea and the cat that is stretched beside me. My hope is primarily to live a good life and to write only what merits repeating.