The leaves are changing and they are mine.
In a little less than a month, I will have new stories to tell, not the old of banana farms, scratched forearms and pale morning light above soy fields. Not of who I’ve lost and who I’ve found. Not of silly work stories or music recommendations or punchy quotes that pass the time, fashion, thin walls or this fleeting thought and that hollow laugh.
It will be the stuff of legends, beaches, loneliness, heartache, growth like birch trees up and up and even more so, far away. Sand forever in my shoes, dirt under my fingernails, the chicken bus, the malaria pills, the unspoiled wilderness and the spoiled beaches, all the yelling, all the quiet. All the togetherness and all the silent nights, slapping at mosquitoes, the deafening silence of my own thoughts, or lack thereof.
I’m going away for 6 weeks; it’s all set and done. Down the Yucatan, into Belize, Guatemala, Nicaragua, and Costa Rica. I will have a backpack and I will not have a computer.
There is that of course. There is also the novel, which, if all goes well, I will have a first draft and one I am proud of, by the time I get onto the plane. I’m handing over a part of me; the best part maybe, and letting it go, not knowing what will arrive in its place. I want to write; I want to be better, this time more about travel and discovery and less about the search for self. I want a great deal and that is good, it reminds me I’m alive, that we’re never stuck where we thought we’d be, that there is always an option, always a new day and always a way to go further even if you think that you’ve come as far as you ever even dreamed…