I wanted to write something while I’m in this impromptu and unexpected state of inspiration.
So it’s late in the evening, I have Jazz radio playing on itunes and I’m contemplating bringing coffee into the situation, just to add to the classic cliche of lone late-night writer, I’m managing to achieve right now.
Like, I am genuinely impressed with myself. I feel like I’m starring in one of those big budget all star American movies where the opening scene is basically everything I’ve got going on as I write this. Woody Allen directing of course, for the obvious quirk there would be, as it’s my world.
Anyway, I seem to be failing somewhat with keeping on topic, so I’ll attempt to steady my woozy pride at being a rose-tinted, jazzy cliche for two ticks, and tell you more about why I’m sat up in bed surrounded by Sharpie pens, Kit Kat wrappers and cats at 10pm at night.
Not so glam now, eh?
Today has been one of those days where everything has got me down. I’ve been feeling unwell with my ME, my return to Facebook has caught up with me from my 9 month hiatus and how unfulfillingly inane and non life – affirming it really is, and my living conditions. Almost a year on from moving back home with the parents and I have failed miserably to do the one thing I knew I needed and wanted to do; move out. So that’s got me down and I am constantly trying to ignore the thoughts of it and matching pangs of shame that I’m still here. It’s no hotel spa break though, I pay my way and the stress is insurmountable, so my desperation to move out is constant and often grows each day.
I read an article earlier about a woman goes on holidays by herself in a rented motor home and who is, unsurprisingly, very happy with the arrangement. You can read the article here. It really inspired me to do more things by myself and go places and be the adventurer I have always wanted to be.
But that’s one of the bug bares about being single, isn’t it? Lone travel. Going places alone, without a man by your side to act as your aide, protector, your someone to cuddle up to when night falls and to make you bacon sandwiches when morning comes around. That said. I don’t need a bacon sandwich; however, I have it set in my mind that I can’t travel alone. I struggle to get on a train without having about a thousand panic’s that I’ll be late for the connecting train or I’ll miss my stop or I’ve gone all out and boarded the wrong train all together. So surely, I’d just be a complete disaster travelling and exploring by myself? Well, that’s what I’ve told myself and that’s what I’ve believed, but we all know you don’t know for sure until you try. So, try I might.
I’ve always been too scared to join an evening or weekend class, or go away for the weekend by myself, mainly because I always imagine all the things that could go wrong and all the dangers I could face and before I’ve even thought up nice places to visit, I’ve managed to talk myself out of the whole thing. It’s really quite an achievement.
One of the few things I miss about being in a relationship, is the fun days out and weekend trips away. And the fact that there is barely anything to worry about because you’re with someone who’ll take care of you and make sure you don’t get eaten by wolves or get on the train to Burma instead of the 9.14 to Edinburgh. Y’know? It’s another pair of hands to lug about the luggage, another pair of eyes to look at directions and live train boards and it’s someone to talk to when new places get a bit overwhelming and all you want is your own bed and duvet. I guess this last paragraph pretty much identifies how on the surface, I really am quite the home bird who likes her home comforts, her possessions and company. But there’s a much larger part of me, deep down inside; the nomad, the adventurer, the explorer, the camper-vanner, the travel writer in me who is waiting in the wings for the solo adventure of a lifetime. Waiting in the shadows, pen and journal in one hand, passport, currency and map in the other, ready (so ready) to leave this responsible, dull 8-6 existence behind and run for the Tibetan mountain range screaming for the Dalai Lama to rescue my wrought western soul.
Right now, I would happily jack-in all tech devices and indulge in the soul reviving opportunity of keeping a Michael Palin-esque account of my travels in a rustic journal, as I tour the list of places on my “To Visit” list and look so very much forward to typing it all up for my blog upon my return. I think every part of me craves this at the moment. A retreat. Quietness, stillness, headspace, calm, warmth, beauty, clarity; with a result of understanding who I really am when all of these wonders are around me. Who am I when I am calm and quiet and comfortable in my surroundings? Am I a different person or am I the same but happier? I might talk about this in a more in depth post. I think I need to evaluate how much my environment is defining me as a human being, a character, person.
For now, without committing myself to anything, I feel it might be time for me to broaden my horizons a bit, look beyond the border of my village and trust that even when there isn’t someone waiting on the platform to greet me off the train, I’ll still be OK.
Because I am a strong, confident and independent woman who can and will achieve many wonderful things alone.