In less than a month, Sailor Boy and I are leaving home for parts unknown. First, it’s Portugal in August, Greece in September, Spain in October. Flights are booked, lodging is mostly secured, and we’re in countdown. Everyone is excited for us; their eyes glaze over when I tell them our plan. It’s a dream, right?
Why then am I having cold feet? Here’s the short list:
- I’m a homebody but not a home body.
- Everyone and everything I love is right here.
- There’s a baby due in our family and I have a book in production.
- I cherish our home. Will it be alright without us?
Right now, the feeling is akin to when you’re a kid and creep onto the grainy surface of a diving board. The pool shimmers aqua blue a hundred feet below. There’s a line of screaming kids behind. The sun is blinding. You’ve got to jump. Trembling, you force yourself out on the board, step by step. You jump! Your stomach drops as the water zooms closer. Then splash! Underwater, your skin tingles, eyes sting, hair fans out like seaweed. You surface, gasping for breath. You made it!
I long to take the plunge, to jump, to break through, but now I’m clutching the rails, stepping up the ladder of days and deadlines.
Last night at our girls’ poker game, I read this anonymous quote, “We travel not to escape life, but for life not to escape us.”
That’s it! I said to myself. Life seems to be slipping by in ever-accelerating speed. I’ve traveled enough to know that when I leave home spontaneity replaces duty, food is consumed leisurely, sunsets linger, and most of all strangers in strange lands become friends.
Bon Voyage,
Take good care,
Be safe,
I promise to write.
