Wanderlust

If you haven’t already realized, I despise human beings almost as much as anchovies on pizza. So I’ve found the perfect solution- to run away from both.
I am writing to you from a treetop bedroom. There isn’t a cloud in the sky and I can barely hear my own thoughts over the rhythmic humming of cicadas, but in paradise I guess you don’t need thoughts anyway. Actually, I’ll correct myself there- there is so much to think about, but not a thing to stress about. Time is a foreign concept on the island. It slows to a gentle breeze which sweeps you up and floats you downstream to tomorrowland. Nothing matters but here and now. Living in the moment and enjoying it in every sense.

It’s the kind of place where it never rains and the sunshine wraps you in its welcoming embrace the second you step off the boat, which is your only way to reach this wonderland. On my way over I spotted other women on my ferry in floaty chiffon kaftans with jade green fingernails. That’s how I knew I was heading in the right direction; you wouldn’t usually spot city folk in flip flops with dreadlocks.

I have a week before I shift into my new home on the island. The best way I can describe it is a giant treehouse amongst overgrown native bush. With its hidden lofts and fairytale bridges, it’s the kind of home any kid would dream of growing up in. The perfect abode for my bohemian bub.

The people here are too nice to be human. So far I’ve collected a dining table and chairs, two sofas, a pram and capsule, a changing table, a basinet, a cabinet, two dinner sets, blankets, as well as other little bits and pieces, all for twenty dollars. Today a lady working in the local grocery store not only smiled at me, but introduced herself and even started up a conversation! My taxi driver did the same. Being from a city where people throw nasty glances in your direction for wearing colors too bright or for appearing to be having too much fun, (because “Who gave you the right to?”) I was, and admittedly still am, in utter disbelief. Tonight I’ve been invited to a barbecue with a bunch of total strangers on one of the island’s many beautiful beaches.

I don’t have too much to say about it all right now. I’m still trying to absorb it all, really. All I know is that there was a hideous tension in my stomach I didn’t know existed until I escaped it, and I never plan on going back. Rather spontaneously I dumped my life; my lifestyle, my fake friends, my material belongings, to run away and begin a new life where nobody knows my name. It sounds crazy, yes, but in fact, it is something I recommend you do at least once in your lifetime.

Stop wishing you could leave your job to travel and start realizing there’s no reason you can’t. Our jobs are what we do, not who we are. If you have started to believe your job is who you are, it’s almost too late. Pack a bag and hop on the first bus anywhere. Go find yourself.
Stop letting that little voice tell you you’ve had kids so you’ve missed your chance. Instead, tell that voice to piss off and that yes, you will see the Northern Lights, and so will your kids. Stop seeing your children as roadcones in your way, and rather as friends to join you in your journey and discover the world alongside you.

Stop telling yourself you can’t afford it, you’re not independent enough, stop giving in to fear. Of course it’s frickin scary; that’s a whole part of it. Buy that ticket. Take the risk. Leave it all behind and begin new memories. Make your own dreams come true, no excuses. Don’t just wait for them to happen. Take that first step, even if it’s just writing a bucket list or pulling out your old mapbook. You won’t regret it, trust me.

“Yesterday is gone. Tomorrow has not yet come. We have only today. Let us begin.”
– Mother Teresa

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