Anticipation:
Less than one month until my departure date.
I gave my notice to one of my three jobs, knocking timidly on the office door, my voice informing my boss of my plans with the slightest tremor. “Aren’t you afraid?” she asks, in the ever-so-polite way that Minnesotans inquire about personal things. In her eyes, I have rough plans sketched in the aftermath of a one-way flight, no contacts to follow, just the whisper of adventure. I am leaving my jobs, my family, my friends, my country, any stability I have established, to go off on my own.
I have a very nostalgic sense of fear, felt only when I think of how my life is moving in a different direction than those of my closest friends. Instead of engagements, weddings, job promotions, career paths, masters degrees, or PhD’s, I have a map sketched on a piece of paper, dreams of organic farms, hobbies to nurture, increased self-dependency to develop, global citizenry to establish. One path is not better than the other. Each path is blazed according to circumstance, opportunity, connection. In response: I am more nervous for the return than the departure, and I have only a vague idea of when the return will be.
My brain is clicked into travel gear, ticking through list after list. To pack: clothing, warm gear, preventative medications, health and beauty, gadgets. Each category contains its own column of items. To do: box up belongings, write letters, make last-minute appointments, purchase train tickets, make reservations, inform friends and co-workers. Sketch out calendars with remaining days, red and blue boxes that make my stomach simultaneously nervous and giddy, little sketches in the margins, lists on sticky notes, phone numbers and addresses.
This chapter of my life is drawing to a close; the next chapter is rustling with promise.
As I get in the car after our conversation, turning the key in the ignition, listening as the engine whirrs into life, emotions begin to swirl violently in my chest. Excitement, fear, a hysteric flush of realization at the reality of it, months of talking about it and suddenly, we are here:
Balancing on the delicate cusp, still before the mad rush of beginning.