I hate that expression. “Time to burn”. Makes it seem like something you can waste.
The terminal is sparsely populated by grave, tired looking figures with sleek black rolling bags. They gaze out the window at the cobus 3000 which carries more tired looking figures to a flight they wish was theirs. A man snaps photos of a silver, orange and blue airbus as it thunders down the runway. A yellow truck filled with luggage rumbles after.
I wonder if my bag will make it through. How upset would I be to lose it?
Not very.
A twisty, rainbow, whimsical child’s toy stands beside the blue/grey seats and looks very out of place.
I don’t believe there’s a munchkin to be found in the whole terminal.
Not that I’m complaining.
The more I travel, the more I feel like a child.
The more I feel like a child, the more I seem to dislike children.
I love their creativity, their spontaneity, their playfulness.
I love the idea of “child”.
But it’s usually the screaming, kicking, complaining, havoc wreaking, chaos devil with whom I come in contact.
I'm not particularly fond of this sort of child.
Croatian echoes out of the loudspeakers, filling the waiting areas with a language I can't understand and making me feel isolated and small in my blue/grey chair. I already miss hearing English in the background. A month and a half in England spoiled this monoglot rotten.
But I love knowing that if I absolutely had to communicate with someone, I could make it work. Regardless of whether or not we share a common language.
My week with Jack and Charlotte flew by in a creative, chaotic masterpiece of foam, beads, Easter eggs, happy dogs, Camembert, bacon, Thai massage, yoga and encouragement. I’m tempted to complain that it was too short, but I’m aware that it was just right.
In the short six days, I annihilated a brick wall, baked two different kinds of cookies, two different kinds of cakes, led two yoga sessions, gave two Thai massages, helped out at one craft fair --
-- drank more wine than I’d care to admit, learned to crochet --
-- went on some basic foraging adventures --
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| Borage. The seed oil is used to heal skin disorders. It also helps ease PMS, ADHD and RA. The flower is used to treat depression and adrenal insufficiency. |
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| Jack by the Hedge. Was once used as a disinfectant and diuretic. It has since been reduced to salads. |
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| Dock. There are several different kinds of dock, so I'm not sure which this is -- but I know that many are used as gentle laxatives and to soothe blisters and burns. |
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| Stinging Nettle. This is a diuretic that helps prevent kidney stones and the leaves ease the pain of arthritis. |
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| White Dead-Nettle. This plant is used as a sedative and to reduce inflammation. |
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| Cleavers. Used as a lymphatic tonic and (surprise) diuretic. It is excellent for treating psoriasis (so I will be eating a LOT) and arthritis. |
-- and tasted the
wonder that is nettle soup.
It was just right because it gave me everything I needed.
For the first time since I left Billie’s last October, I truly felt at home.
It was just right because it gave me everything I needed.
For the first time since I left Billie’s last October, I truly felt at home.
Charlotte and Jack welcomed me back into their Buckinghamshire cottage with open arms, exquisite food and loads of crafty goodness. There were a couple of miserable, drizzly days (English days), but my last afternoon more than compensated for the previous poor weather.
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| Wild Garlic. This plant does everything. It's a very efficient spring tonic, boosting the immune system and lowering blood pressure and cholesterol. It soothes the stomach, promotes digestion and is generally awesome. |
Jack dropped me off at Terminal 5 on Thursday morning, saving me from spending a lonely night in Heathrow airport as I waited for my flight to leave at 8:30 am.
"Come back when you need."
"I will."
What a difference from the way I was sent off from Harriet's. Blurgh. Unpleasant memories. This family made me feel so loved. So valuable. So... wanted.
Heathrow was a mess. An overwhelming, disastrous mess. My gate number appeared on the screen ten minutes before the gate itself was supposed to close, so I rushed towards A7 in a semi-panic -- only to discover that the plane was delayed by half an hour.
That's what I get for semi-panicking.
After sitting next to an extremely ripe smelling middle-aged chap with greasy skin and a wiry mustache for nearly three hours, I landed in Zagreb.
I hope I don't run into any issues with passport control...
I had Milda's boyfriend's address in my iPhone, ready to hand to the officers if they asked me where I was planning to stay. I had a back-story as to how I met Milda and what I'd be doing in the back of my mind. I had --
The officer took my passport, glared at it for a second or two, and then sullenly stamped the rapidly filling pages with the red word "Zagreb".
How? What? So easy.
I smiled brightly (in astonished, grateful bewilderment), and passed through the gate.
Next stop, Split. I've had to go through security again (and was thoroughly patted down. Thoroughly. My hippie earrings and lumberjack boots strike fear into the hearts of airport security) and am now waiting.
Waiting.
Worrying.
I'm nervous about what this next month will bring.
I'm nervous because this next month has the potential to be everything I want.
Teaching yoga at a retreat on an island off the coast of Croatia?
Umm.
Yes?
I'm attached to the idea of this being an incredible experience. I'm nervous that I won't be enough. I'm nervous that I'll let the Dalmatia Events team down. I'm nervous that I'll fail at sharing my passion with the people who attend the retreat.
There is no future. Let go of your fear. Let go of your need for an "incredible experience". Let it be an experience. Let go of your insecurities. Let go of your need to be an "incredible teacher". Let yourself be a teacher.
"Now boarding flight 380!"
Here I go. Ready or not. Que sera.
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