Bubble of Happy --- Devon, England

I decided to boycott airplanes and explore slower, more intimate and environmentally friendly ways of getting from point A to point B (without missing all the wonderful in-between) last Friday night. In the not so distant past, my general habit had been to purchase tickets nearly a year in advance, so it's unfortunate that I already have two tickets paid for and I'm loathe to waste them. One is from London to Split and the other from Amsterdam to Denver.

Denver airport will (hopefully) be the culmination of this lady's flying days.

Sorting tickets so far in advance has helped me to find the cheap flights and served to add a sense of direction to my haphazard lifestyle. Also, a flight code number in my gmail account is a sort of crutch I lean on to remind me that moments are fleeting and that I should do my best to remain unattached.

Good or bad, I'm flying out of here April 10th. Make sure you can let it go by then.

Finally, when I'm feeling stuck, overwhelmed, depressed, I would buy these tickets as a way of asserting my personal independence. 

I have control over my life! Look here. This email says that I'm going to Split on the 10th of April. No matter what happens, I will be on that plane!

Sometimes I confuse micromanagement with freedom. Planning with independence. Giving myself a safety net with courageously forging forward.

"When you plan something, it never feels as real or as beautiful as when life just... happens. When things just come together," Michael commented during one of our walks to the beach.

I've been looking at kayak.com for deals from Denver to Mexico City for the last few months. Several times, I've had a flight selected, all the credit card information entered and my mouse hovering over the "submit" button.

For some strange reason, I always clicked the X instead.

What's wrong with me? I would wrack my brain. Why can't I commit to this flight? I feel right about going to Mexico City. I feel right about leaving in November. So what's holding me back? 

I never would have thought it would be the way of getting from point to point keeping me from clicking "submit".

Yesterday morning, in between working on my blog and working on my website, I switched over to facebook and typed this query into a group called "Nomads -- a life of cheap/free travel":

Hey all! I'm a long term traveler who's just decided to give up flying. For environmental reasons, hating airport reasons and not wanting to miss everything I'm flying over reasons.

Any suggestions as to how to get over oceans without flying?

Also, I need to get from Denver to Mexico city this November. I was thinking about hitchhiking from Denver to the border and then taking a bus. Any suggestions there?

 Within an hour, a friend I'd met on the Ruby Horsethief  rafting trip contacted me. I was offered a ride on the backseat of his motorcycle from Colorado to across the Mexican border. There would be camping excursions in Bryce Canyon, Grand Canyon, and Zion along the way.

This. This is why you always clicked the X, Bourget. You needed to leave space in your life for a different kind of movement. 

Needless to say, I pounced on this opportunity with an abundance of yes please and proceeded to bubble over with happiness for the rest of the day.

"EVERYTHING IS COMING TOGETHER!" I bubbled to Harriet.

"EVERYTHING IN MY LIFE IS AMAZING!" I bubbled to Michael.

Bubble, bubble, bubble. 

The next day, I received a FB message from the same chap, saying that he wouldn't be able to get the time off work in November for the aforementioned motorcycle trip, but would be very happy to take me on the same adventurous excursion in September.

Oof.... I'll be hitchhiking through Germany in September and my ticket back to Denver isn't until the 28th of that month. No, September doesn't work at all. Oof. That's bad news. I silently looked at the screen, absorbing the information and the thoughts and feelings invoked by the little message in the bottom right corner. No. It isn't bad news. I allowed awareness to spread through my body and was pleasantly surprised/shocked to notice that I wasn't unhappy about the sudden turn of events. It just means that something else will happen. This isn't bad news. It's just... news. I'm sure something else will present itself. My bubble of happy is SO not popped. 

"EVERYTHING IS COMING TOGETHER!" I bubbled to Harriet.

"EVERYTHING IN MY LIFE IS AMAZING!" I bubbled to Michael.

Bubble, bubble, bubble.

In other news...

Michael padded into the living room at 7:30. I appreciated the softness of his movement. It's easy to tell how aware he is of his feet (which are scratched and bloody from a six hour barefoot hike along the coast the day before) and of his body as he thoughtfully floats through space.

"Would you like some tea?" he switched on the CD player and knelt down to light a stick of incense.

I looked at my full mug resting on the hearth beside me.

"I've got some. Thanks."

I packed my amateur recording equipment into my crumpler bag, pulled on my long underwear, zipped up my down jacket and strolled down to the beach with my floating friend. He walked lightly over the pavement, barefoot and gently swinging the house guitar under his arm. I felt unreasonably heavy with my barefoot shoes and canvas pack full of expensive electronics.

Then again, I always feel unreasonably heavy around Michael. 

I spread out a beach towel and set up my recording equipment. Michael sipped his hippie ginger tea and strummed the guitar, humming quietly with the chords to warm up his husky voice.

"Well, I'm waiting on the road to show me my home. Yes, I'm waiting on the road to show me my home..."

It was my turn to sit quietly. The gulls screamed. The waves crashed. Dogs yapped happily as they chased after balls/flying sand. Michael's voice seemed to naturally weave through the background noise and magically, masterfully tie it all together into a beautiful orchestra.

We walked back to Aetherius House in time for our work to begin at 9:30. Harriet set us to cleaning her greenhouse, making juice, updating websites, preparing lunch, feeding cats, digging ponds and hanging up laundry.

I could have finished the work twice over in the amount of time she took explaining the tasks.

Someone who wants everything done so perfectly shouldn't be involved with Helpex. What she needs is either a permanent assistant or to loosen up and realize that some people might just put beetroot in their juice or sometimes prefer NOT to bung everything all together. 

I was interrupted from making juice to be introduced to the website. I was interrupted from updating the website to be told why and how Loki (the cat) prefers to be scratched (he's a rescue cat, so has abandonment issues and should be tickled on the tummy while he eats to reassure him). I was interrupted from tickling Loki to be shown all the places in the office I ought to vacuum.

You could just ask me to vacuum. Like, blanket statement. Vacuum. 

I find Harriet to be a truly lovely woman. She's remarkably overgenerous with food, generally lets me fulfill my working hours in ways I enjoy (cooking and teaching) and takes the time to help me pursue the things that are important to me. She's probably made over a dozen phone calls to various post offices asking about my sleeping bag. She's responsible for getting me work teaching yoga in Barnstaple and for the extra 80 pounds (160 dollars) in my pocket. She's planning on introducing me to a Vinyasa teacher in another nearby town to see if this person might like my assistance during teacher trainings.

I complain about the little things because they're funny, annoying and easy to complain about. When I live with people, they become a kind of  family and it's very easy for things to fester under your skin when dwelling in such close proximity and in someone's debt/at someone's mercy.

So I merely bite my lip and switch from tickling the cat to hanging up a sock to taking notes on how to vacuum the seemingly straightforward room.

This is something you can see through. This is unimportant. I just need to approach my work here differently. Instead of asking, "can I make cauliflower quiche for lunch?" I need to ask, "what can I do for you today?" 

All the same, I wasn't terribly disappointed when my host announced that she'd be going to Bristol for the night and could I please teach her yoga and meditation classes that evening.

Michael and I took advantage of her absence to guiltily purchase bacon and black pudding. I felt like a rebellious teenager, hiding the delicious, fatty loot under my arm and nervously looking over my shoulder as we returned from the Spar. I was worried that our adamantly vegetarian host had realized she'd forgotten her enema pot of her tupperware of liver cleanse and was currently blazing back to the B&B.

Classes finished, Michael and I fried up bacon, black pudding tomatoes and eggs. 

Bacon, I closed my eyes in bliss. How I've missed you. 

I opened my eyes and saw Michael watching me, amusement etched into his mountain man features.

"What?" I asked defensively through a mouthful of salty, crunchy goodness. "So I like bacon. A lot. So I happen to like bacon a lot. Do you still want to take the kayak out tonight?" I changed the subject.

"Of course."
 
In between telling us exactly why and how to mist the seedlings in the greenhouse and polytunnel, Harriet had offhandedly mentioned that the sea kayak lived in the garage beside the greenhouse and that we were welcome to take it for float.

Michael and I finished our forbidden meal (I did my best to keep my eyes open), raided the spare hats/gloves/scarves drawer and then stole up to the garage to make off with the kayak. After bumbling around in the clutter for ten minutes and another ten minutes of trial and error with attaching the wheels, we tugged it down the hill and to the beach.

"I feel like a little kid," Michael laughed as he pulled the kayak behind him like a sled.

"I'm so happy that we're doing this," I crowed to the clear night sky.

I'd been silly and had chosen to wear my Timberlands instead of the spare wellies, so Michael lifted me with a grunt --

"I'm sorry I'm so heavy."

"It's okay. And you're not heavy."

"That was the correct thing to say."

-- and carried me to the kayak, plopping me down in the front seat and climbing into the back behind me.

We drank tea and talked about finding mermaids and pirates. I told the story of Odysseus and the sirens and promised to tie him to the kayak, should we run into any seductively singing, half-naked fish ladies.  He showed me how to recline backwards and feel like I was falling forward into the stars.

Michael tugged the kayak back up the hill to the B&B. We were both soaked through, but glowing, bubbling with happy.

"Just decided to take your boat out for a walk, did ya now?" asked a grizzled old English man before we rolled up to the B&B.

We both took hot showers and Michael lit the fire. I put on my slippers with floppy sheep heads and a baggy, old lady sweater, padding into the kitchen to make hot chocolate.

I handed Michael his steaming mug and said, "you're wonderful at playing the guitar. I'm pretty good at reading. Can we sit in front of the fire, drink hot chocolate and I'll read you a story?"

"That sounds perfect."

 We made the classiest of kids, lazing in front of the fire in the beanbag chair, drinking hot chocolate and reading, "The 100 Year Old Man Who Climbed Out of the Window and Disappeared".