I was right, though, we had barely anything in common. She was a painter, an artistic soul that identified with pain of Joni Mitchell and I was an athlete, given every opportunity to succeed in life who had cracked under the pressure. We both had reached that street corner in our idealistic efforts to figure out who we were and where we were headed. Little did we know then that, The more you see the less you know, the less you find out as you go. Ahhh, Bono and his irrefutable wisdom. Needless to say, it’s been a bumpy ride and ten years later we have gained only so much insight as to know better than to strive after definitions. It is our experiences, not our determinations that shape us. Sadly, it doesn’t work the other way around. We rarely get to pick what happens to us. Though most of the time it doesn’t feel like it, I’m beginning to believe it’s better that way.
Case in point.
The birds are chirping as I sit hammering away at my keyboard. The balcony furniture is green, uncomfortable metal but I would rather have a sore back in the breeze than sit at a desk. Just over the tops of the trees, I can see the Melbourne City Skyline. By some gift of grace, this has become my life. Throughout most of my twenties, I wished myself a million times around the world, but could never get there. Kristen was the friend that was constantly flitting off on a trip to Africa or Asia or someplace I had never heard of. She rarely had a steady job or career. She just worked enough to fund her painting and her next adventure. Honestly, sometimes I thought she was irresponsible. But deep down, I was envious of her. Envious of her bravery. Envious of her freedom. She was a go-er and at that point in my life, I had morphed into a stay-er. I didn’t know when it had happened but all of a sudden I heard myself rattling on and on about how traveling was too expensive. Traveling was too time-consuming. Traveling was for people who were rich or famous or just luckier than me. My list of excuses was equally as ludicrous as it was long.
And then one morning I woke up and the fact that my life no longer fit me blazed like a neon sign at the end of my bed. Inside of me an undeniable fire burned. It was as though a match had been thrown into my smoldering life, and now flames were unapologetically engulfing it. It was unclear what parts of me would survive this blaze, if any. I was Foundation. No walls. No roof. Just concrete laid bare against the elements. It was terrifying and exhilarating and I knew that Kristen-kind-of-bravery would be my only guide through the muddy waters. I did the only thing I could think of: I gave up on trying so hard to get it right and just started living. I went back to school. Stared learning Chinese. I booked a trip to Portland. Got a tattoo. Climbed waterfalls. Drank too much wine. And then I went to Vancouver. Took a ferry. Watched Killer Whales majestically leap out of the sea. Ate some amazing fish and chips and got my heart broken. And then to China. Walked The Great Wall in the pouring rain. Took pictures with strangers and gave in to the peace sign pose. Prayed in a Buddhist Temple and fell in madly love with a Brit. I then booked several flights to the UK…for obvious reasons. I had no idea what would come of my adventures, but I honestly didn’t care. I was alive and living. Awake in the moment.
Over the course of my two years in renovation I took thousands of pictures and logged thousands more frequent flyer miles and with each trip, the pieces of my life were gradually being rebuilt. I somehow won the Humpty Dumpty lottery and ended up with Kings and Horses that could put any puzzle back together. And this time I was stronger. I had survived being broken. And not only survived, but thrived. My heart was beating truly. The rhythm was my own and the tune just happened to be one that I wrote. It sounded a little like something you might hear in Portland or China or maybe even in the lush green of Australia.
The day is frozen in my memory. It was breezy, a little cold and the rain was drizzling on and off. How quickly I learned to expect this from English Octobers. I stood in the watchtower at Warwick Castle overlooking the colors that painted Warwickshire in autumnal elegance. The trees, crinkly and ancient, stretched to the sky with grandfatherly charm as the bell tower song of St. Mary’s church floated across the expansive fields. Inhaling I took it all in and exhaling I couldn’t help but whisper, How on earth did I get here? I had asked myself that question before, but not like this. This wasn’t desperation. It wasn’t despair. It was grateful disbelief at the winding journey that had led me to my accidental discovery of happiness.
