It's late Sunday night. By the time I finish this post, it will probably be early Monday morning (writing has been a slow and arduous process, as of late). I leave for Denver promptly Tuesday morning with my mother, my plum colored Osprey backpack and my lime green High Sierra carry-on. George has carefully instructed me to take off my Osprey backpack before I descend the steps of the Eireann coach, that he might give me a proper hug as soon as I arrive. George's hug has been with me since my last visit to Tipperary. It motivated me in France. It was a safety net in Morocco. It's encouraged me in Colorado.
I'm jubilant to see George again.
In spite of all the marvelous opportunities through which I've directed my path, I'm finally feeling a wee bit terrified. I've bitten off so very much, and digestion has never been my strong suit. I believe I have the personality required for effective vagabonding -- openness, an easy smile, ability to sleep just about anywhere, moderate cooking skills, an independent spirit, and just the right amount of awkward -- but I'm still nervous.
Seriously.
A friend from Ireland once told me that I always land on my feet. I disagree. I always land, sure -- but I have made a real habit of landing on my nose, my wrists, my elbows, and any other body part that is awkward/painful. People assume that I land on my feet because I am highly adaptable and possess the magical abilities of making a full on nose-dive look like a graceful gymnastic finish. Which doesn't mean that the nose-dive didn't hurt like hell -- it just means that I can find the lessons in the bruises and choose to tell my story with the lessons in mind.
Lasts... it's been almost a year since I've experienced lasts the way I'm experiencing them now. They are so damn bittersweet. I shared my last cup of chai with Kenton and my last cup of coffee with Troy. Friday was my last day gardening for Judy --
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| Defeating the rosebush! |
Last.
People remember lasts and people remember firsts. I remember my first time seeing Janet. We were playing a theatre name game and she stuck out her tongue. I was impressed by how bold she was and felt shamed by the mundane cheerleader-esque arm twirl I'd selected to accompany my name. I remember my first day in Italy and I remember my last day in Italy. The beginning and the end of that short chapter of life. I have no idea what I did on the second day or the twenty-second day. It seems like what happens in-between tends to get lost in the humdrum monotony of everyday living. The in-between becomes the background music and subtly sets the tone. We have so much stimuli that we focus our energy on truly experiencing the first and the last. Else we're overwhelmed.
Funerals are lasts. Death does have a certain ring of finality to it, and people come out of the woodwork (and from all over the world) to gather and express their appreciation for this particular last. I feel like my manner of travel allows me to be present at my own funeral once a month. I feel compelled to tell people exactly how much they mean to me, lest I should never see them again. They feel the same. Thus, these last two weeks have seen me drowning in an ocean of encouragement, appreciation, and love.
It's because I'm leaving and people relish their lasts. Think about the last chocolate bar before a diet. Think about the last chapter of the last book of your favorite series ever. You taste, smell, feel, see that chocolate bar with heightened awareness. It is your last and you want to savor chocolate's luxurious melting sensation as long as possible. You dissect the experience and you store it.
It's an emotional adrenaline rush. Some people need to jump off large buildings or lift small buildings to feel alive.
I just need to "die" every so often. Like the flowers in Judy's garden. As of late, I've been enraptured by the elegance of dying flowers.
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| Judy and Cal |
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