I walk around my house, a house I love. I have filled it with memories from my travels – in my room are 4 canvas photos (Costa Rica, Peru, Spain, Morocco). A camel bone mirror is on my wall, a leather painted lamp on the table. A sarong from Costa Rica drapes another wall, its festive orange, red, and rust lizards dancing down the stucco as they might in reality, were I there.
I walk on the gleaming hardwood floors of my yoga room, a room bare but for a basket of mats in one corner, and the pillows under the altar. The altar holds mala beads, scented candles, a bronze statue of Ganesh, and the leaf that drifted down onto my leg as I meditated at Machu Picchu, breathing the air of long-ago Incan farmers and kings, surrounded by quiet birdsong.
And I want to make more.
So, yes, much as I love my new home and am trying to embrace the need to stay PUT! – my gypsy soul whispers, “Just one month of travel, this summer, please?”
And I open back up my HelpX account, looking for hosts and volunteer opportunities.
But there’s this thing …. A monster that hovers over my head, makes me hesitate, makes me want to go to my familiar bed and pull the covers up over my head. The THING is fear. People I know don’t think I’m scared. But I am; I am terrified of my own shadow. I don’t know if I’ll be okay! I don’t know where the hell Indonesia really is! Or Singapore, how do I even get there? When I thought of going to India, I was exploring fares to Dubai instead of Mumbai. I wasn’t even looking at the right place!
I’m scared, scared, scared.
But not scared enough not to go.
To tell the truth, my preferred method of travel is with a buddy. A male buddy; someone I can rely on to take over should I falter. Someone who, though he might not ask for directions, at least knows which way is west. Someone who might want to go to a fancy dinner – or a not fancy dinner – and then make love until we pass out with bliss. My second choice is with a platonic buddy – someone to shop with and argue about whether to go to a museum. Someone to drink half the bottle of wine – 2 glasses each, which is reasonable, whereas drinking the whole bottle alone is not.
My third choice is to go by myself. But the worst choice is not to go at all.