Andrej's gone to work for the day, so I have the apartment to myself. I'm playing my very saddest music with abandon, thrilled that I can sing along to Damien Rice's "Accidental Babies" without ruining someone's morning. A rare beam of sunshine glimmers through the window behind me, revealing all the fingerprints and dust on my computer screen. I've closed all the other tabs so that I can focus on this post. But that doesn't mean I won't write a paragraph (or a sentence) and then (ironically) reach for my kindle to read a few pages of a mindfulness book I've just downloaded. It doesn't mean I won't walk over to the fridge to munch on some emmentaler whenever I lose momentum. Or make this morning's second cup of coffee. Doesn't mean I won't open up thesaurus.com to look up more interesting variations of the word "lonely," become oddly fascinated by the word "troglodytic" and lose myself in the infinite world of synonyms.
But at least I'm making an effort to focus on this one tab.
One tab and my sad music.
It's been a month without Boy. Two weeks of couchsurfing alone through Italy, two weeks of staying with my friend in Ljubljana.
Seven more months. That's still longer than both of my trips to Mexico combined. I wonder if the distance will become unbearable, or if the seven months apart will just be tinged with longing. Warped by wistfulness. Like drinking a hot chocolate and thinking, "I love you, but you'd be better with whipped cream. Why don't you have whipped cream?"
Seven months illuminated by the joy of living a life I'm passionate about, but without the person I'd like to share it with.
I wonder how we'll manage. I mean, I know we will... but I wonder how.
I've been on hormone therapy for five days now, and I'm already feeling much better. Tired, lethargic, a bit distracted, but better.
Yoga has become a consistent part of my life again.
Finally.
I had myself quite the cry during my first hour-long session wherein I at last adopted the intention to play my edge, instead of just playing it safe. To explore my new limitations instead of avoiding them.
I haven't played my edge because I've been afraid to see how much ground I've lost. I've spent so many years building up strength, balance, flexibility, connection between breath and movement... I don't think I've been willing to understand, to accept, to love my new body and new limitations. Part of my identity.... my worth... was attached to the body, the edge of seven months ago.
But that's not what yoga's about, and I know it.
I know it.
But knowing a thing seems to have little correlation with actually doing that thing. Just maybe more shame about not doing it. Or feeling like a total hypocrite when you teach something you struggle to practice.
I know that the heart of yoga is radical acceptance... that's why I love it so much. And that's what I try to communicate to students in my sessions.
"Compassionate curiosity," I always say.
"Where am I now? What am I feeling now? What are my needs now?"
The idea that,
"Where I was yesterday is irrelevant. Where I'll be tomorrow is irrelevant."
But it's incredible how entrenched in the utterly irrelevant my sense of worth can become.
"How can I love myself best in this moment?"
That's relevant.
Radical acceptance isn't what I've given myself since March.
More like radical abandonment and avoidance.
Awesome.
During that first practice, I felt the abandoned parts of my body begin to wake up. Energy and awareness coursing through my neglected muscles, tendons, ligaments, like a flash flood running through a dried out riverbed.
I won't say I have a lot of work to do to regain my lost strength and flexibility. I won't say that, not because it isn't true, but because it's not important. It's not important to have the body of seven months ago. It's important to encourage growth in the body now.
And that's it. That's all there is. That's what's relevant.
In other news...
There are many perks about living in a tiny country, one of them being that you can drive for two hours and be in a different country.
On Friday morning, Andrej and I practiced yoga in his living room and then drove to a different country.
From where I live in the US, it would take eleven hours to drive to the closest Mexican city and about fourteen hours to drive to the closest Canadian city.
From Ljubljana, you can get to Croatia in about an hour. And you can get to Plitvice Lakes National Park in about three and a half.
"It's good to have you, Cat," Andrej told me as he drove us towards the lakes. "I've been wanting to visit Plitvice for years, but can never find anyone to go with me. People just don't have time."
"Well, I have plenty of that," I smiled.
Perks of not having a real job: Time. Time and...
Hmm... no, mostly just time.
Perks OF having a real job: being financially independent. Imagine that. Spending money and knowing I've got another paycheck on the way, not just a slowly diminishing balance in the bank. And I really miss the sense of "I'M DOING STUFF THAT MATTERS!" that came with my jobs in Colorado. Sometimes it's hard to feel like what I'm doing now matters at all, especially when I've spent years teaching yoga and working with high-risk youth. In the face of all that, travel just seems like... fluff. Fun, interesting, exciting fluff.
Sure, I learn a lot about life, the universe and everything, but what good do I do for anyone? Doesn't get a homeless kid into an apartment or help someone heal from sciatica.
I'm also addicted to packed schedules and exhausted evenings and the euphoria of checking things off lists. These things usually are by-products of real jobs.
Maybe I just need to make more checklists.
The border patrol in Slovenia didn't stamp my passport. They hardly even looked at it. They just waved Andrej on through and then went back to their conversation.
"They should stamp it on the Croatian side of the border," Andrej said optimistically.
"I hope so. It would be good to show that I've been out of the Schengen Area for a day."
There was nary a soul at the Croatian side of border control.
"That's a disappointment," I took my passport back from Andrej. "But at least we're going to Pula the last two days of October, so if I need to come back to Slovenia for surgery, I should still be able to. Hopefully."
As we neared Plitvice Lakes, we began to notice a change in the surrounding villages. As in, pretty much every single home had a large sign on the wall or the front yard (or both) that read in big, bold letters, "Apartman".
Holy cow. This place is going to be obscenely touristic.
We checked into our charming, but belligerently hot apartment, ate a quick lunch, and then strolled down a forest path to the lakes.
"Why do you think the place is so hot? It must be insanely expensive for her to pay the heating bill," I pondered as we crunched along the leafy trail.
"In some of these apartment complexes, the heating bill is shared between all the tenants. So maybe they all leave the heat on high and open the windows when it gets too hot."
People. People make no sense. It's not like this is Iceland and all the energy is renewable geothermal and FREE.
After purchasing a couple of two day passes, we walked to the first lake and boarded the ferry that would carry us to the trail on the other side. Plitvice's sixteen lakes are connected by extraordinarily well developed dirt, wood and stone paths, so one would have to put effort into getting lost. Some lakes have restaurants and cafes, some have bus stops and most have absolutely enchanting waterfalls.
We boarded one of the last buses back to the main entrance of the lakes that evening and walked back through the forest to our sweltering apartment.
Boy would be horribly cranky, I smiled a little, imagining his reaction. Gosh, this kind of unnecessary heat would piss him off SO much.
I just opened the patio door, let in the cool night air, and fell fast asleep.
The weather was ominous the next morning, and we were caught in a heavy shower upon arriving at the dock.
The shower passed, the clouds slowly cleared, and we continued to explore.
Plitvice is a must-see in Croatia.
But I don't advise seeing it on a Saturday.
"I can't imagine what it's like in July or August!" Andrej exclaimed as we fought for space on the narrow walking paths. "There are so many people now. And it's October!."
Thousands of tourists, primarily (please forgive the stereotype) the Asian selfie-stick variety, flooded onto the paths.
I feel like selfie sticks in touristic places are like high cholesterol in the body. Blocks everything up. And is going to give me a heart-attack one day.
People would casually hinder a hundred others in order to snap the perfect selfie. Tripods would be planted squarely in the middle of the three-four foot wide paths, making them impossible to circumvent.
How do people think that this is okay?
"Andrej, if I ever buy a selfie-stick, I want you to use it to knock some sense back into me."
We found out from Sasha last night that a new, horrific breed of selfie-stick is soon to be released upon human kind.
A selfie-stick with built in fan and glamour lights.
Behold and be afraid.
Be very afraid.
SELFIE-STICK OF DOOM
On our way back to Andrej's car, the ominous clouds finally let loose, with total abandon (like how I'm currently listening to my sad music).
"We got lucky with our timing," my friend said. "It doesn't look like it's going to let up this time."
And it didn't. It rained all the way back to Ljubljana. And then some.
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