move

The last week in Thailand just disappeared... Back to the States. So strange. So exciting and yet so so strange. Even though we knew the end was coming and both Emily and I were actually looking forward to the change, it was hard to process how fast it arrived.

Naturally I became broody, and spent the better half of our last week battling my anticipation for home and my resistance to leaving. It was touch and go there as I did my best to stay in the moment rather than with my thoughts flitting around to the future and the past and back to the future again...until the last day when we arrived in Phuket. An insane drive through the city. One of the sharp turns and narrow misses we made in that van threw some sense into me (or knocked some sense out of me, depending on your views of that whole sort of thing) and I was absolutely present in Thailand. The sun was going down behind heavy wet clouds as the neon lights of the citystreets illuminated a smoky dome of neon glows and tourists and locals and bumpertobumper and a whole lot of bass, all rising from the streets under the tires of our windy ride. I felt nostalgic for the familiarity of that chaos.

The Phuket drive was a total throwback to a specific taxi drive in Bangkok, a moment that stands out to me now as one of things I love most about Thailand. A taxi drive making that much of an impact? It might not make a whole lot of sense, but the crazy spirit of the drive was full of everything I loved about being there. It caught me off guard and made me appreciate the present (which, I realize time and again, can change its tone from moment to moment).

We were stalled for thirty minutes in the middle of Bangkok waving down a taxi, while our time to catch a bus was slipping away with each denial. We were getting increasingly desperate for help. The guy who finally gave into my pleas, Buddhist bow, and promise to be the best passengers of his night (despite his reluctance to brave the traffic en route to the southern bus terminal), he was my favorite random friend. He swerved and sped and created VIP traffic lanes out of thin air, all the while filling the car with the best soundtrack for the spirit of our rush. He was the first guy who didn't try to get more money out of us than was fair (so we tipped him 50%). Fate denied us the other drivers who brushed us by.

And there in Phuket with another driver who took his soundtrack seriously but laughed at life in general, shouting out his windows, veering around cars in a way that should have made me fear for my life but instead assured me that we were in safe hands. It brought the whole Thai experience full circle for our last night there and I couldn't stop smiling.

But of course we realized only minutes after my romantic revelation that our real last night was the night before because, somehow, we had remembered the dates wrong. Our flight was in 6 hours. Ah well. 

We concluded our travels with an Indian dinner, a harried departure, and then an excruciatingly long day of travel. (Longest day of my life--no exaggeration--December 18th will have lasted for 31 hours for us when all is said and done. I consider this further proof that Time is no respectable unit of measurement and hours, minutes, and seconds as we know them are merely fantastical constructs of the human imagination.)

....I am currently in the 20th hour of December 18th and on the second plane, this time traveling from Seoul to Tel Aviv. (The flight paths laid out for us are just as nonsensical as the hours.) To think that only days ago I was simply worried about mini buses and ferries. 

In fact less than a week ago, Emily and I were squeezed into the umpteenth mini bus of our trip, traversing the jungles and en route to another island. The islands of Thailand were languid and delicious but molasses-slow, slower than anything else we saw in Thailand (and slower than anything we're getting into now, on our way home). There was also the rainforest, and that was a world away from anything else, a destination outside of Thailand, deep in Thailand: tree temples, hidden stone chambers, sparkling walls glossed by watery sheets pooling into a rushing stream on a cave tunnel floor. We trudged through mud and over fallen logs, until we were waist deep--chest deep--neck deep in chilled water from the jungle. Another world--and we were only on the edges.

But no matter where we were, the trip always moved on before we were settled, much too little time for all that we wanted to see. Emily and I ended the rush and noise of the trip with a quiet oasis of an island, bringing everything down into a low hum. Maybe it's because Koh Lanta was our last destination, but our time on the island felt much longer than any other portion of our trip. Time swelled into a silent calm. We rode bikes down the main street (as far as I know, the only street) of the island, slicing through red puddles of mud as the rain soaked our clothes through to the skin. What else is there to do when a warm rainstorm is crashing your plans? It was exhilarating to surrender to the elements and another opportunity to laugh at our misguided planning. After so much excitement, our closing ceremonies took place with books, wine, and rain.

In retrospect, better to end on that sort of note...the rain washed away anxiety, the stillness prepared me for the silent meditation of transition, and then hours later...still writing on the same piece...I'm seamlessly in another country in another time zone (and in hours I will be in yet another). The transitions are neverending, but the most important movements are happening within. Words seem a bit superfluous at this point...

Keep walking, though there's no place to get to.
Don't try to see through the distances.
That's not for human beings. Move within,
but don't move the way fear makes you move.
--Rumi

blur

Written November 25th, halfway through the 11 week trip.

Part I is from a fiesta-colored, sweaty dreambus on the way to a town with no name. Part II is from that village destination, written in a hammock swinging over leaves the size of platters.

***

I.

Having a hard time keeping up here... Everything blurs together in time, and before I have a moment to catch my breath and hold still for a moment, we're off again. The lull in Kuala Lumpur--for those brief days of being a guest, rather than a vagabond--were beautiful. But holding still allowed me the insight of just how exhausted I am. I'm okay with being exhausted; it's a result of soaking in everything that I possibly can, which takes a lot of energy--but I only say it because I feel like it would be dishonest to not admit it: traveling has made me tired.

Our first real day of relaxation in Kuala Lumpur was going to see Twilight, stocked up with Malaysian coconut treats, a couple bottles of wine, and a whole lot of build-up that surprisingly did not disappoint. It was an epic Thanksgiving.

And now I'm in Thailand, where the world shifts once again and the newness of this space and of the scents and colors and smiles and the curly-cue language I could never hope to read...

We began with a 48-hour stint in Bangkok (planning to return in a week or two), which consisted of a heavenly spa day, meltinyourmouth fish, roasted (and deep fried) bananas--

Our bus driver just pulled over, emergency lights on, so he could go buy himself a stick (a broomstick?), and apparently I'm just as ADD as he is, and it looks like the bargaining is done, he's on his way back now, that was hilarious--

and there are so many smiling faces. The people here--kind--are also always aiming to get something out of you. Even the nicest, it's just part of the experience. White, western, money... But the few times we've been taken (only considering the times I'm aware of) have been so insignificant in the grand scheme of things. 40 baht too much? Okay, so that's a little over a dollar... To think how much I take for granted... But it starts to get to you too... 'Can I trust you?' My questioning eyes are always met with assurances of 'Yes, of course,' but when I've caught the smile disappearing as soon as it appears and then I'm at the "only ticket office for bus tickets in the whole city," refusing to pay but, Fine, yes I'll go in for a whole of two seconds so you can collect your commission for bringing a westerner to their door, and then I'm on alert with every helpful gesture, with every quoted price--now that is exhausting--and I'm thrown by the kind souls who want absolutely nothing for helping me to find the right bus to board...Ahhh it's all a game I don't know how to win (am I even playing to win?) but at least I'm getting by--

And now I'm looking out the window at the most precious little altar. Brick red, Thai temple dollhouse with yellow trim turning up at the edges, tea cups in front and flowers tucked into corners...the celebration of life, love, Buddha, humanity, color--it's everywhere. I must be dreaming. Or maybe I'm just widely, shatteringly, painfully, deliciously awake for the longest stretch I've time I've ever been and that is precisely why I am so utterly drained.
And invigorated.
And turned on and numb and everything all at once, a great bramble of contradictions, loosening threads all over the tropics--

I've been reading Rumi, The Book of Love cover to cover... I'm past "Grief" and onto "Tavern Madness" and, as is often the case when I feel drawn to a particular book at a particular time, the poems I am reading now (as well as the commentary from the insightful Coleman Barks) speak to me like my own inner-dialogue.

Pale sunlight,
pale the wall.

Love moves away.
The light changes.

I need more grace
than I thought.

I do, I do.
There is a word in Arabic, faraji, it means "ripped open," or "happiness," or "one who brings the joy of being opened," and I feel like as if it could be embossed on my heart. There is a kaleidascopal universe twisting different shades of green, blue, gold, rain, smoke, and flame before me and the air I'm breathing is just so thick with the saturation of it all, in moments of madness I shut my lips and my eyes for a visit back home. I see the same slides flicker through my vision:

California coast and the gray foaming edges of waves kissing the shore where my feet pad soft etch-a-sketch prints on evening runs; all the fixings of my own kitchen and the simplicity of salad on a ceramic plate and both made by my hands in a true organic food experience; the friends and family and social fun of familiarity; certain smiles that I miss sweetly and certain embraces that I miss fiercely and -- ah, but it's all so familiar that I can imagine it in vivid detail with the very reoccurance of these memories in reinvented, technicolored fantasy -- what about THIS? This unimagined, unremembered, all brand new. Be here now.

II.

My toes are threaded through the holes of a hammock. I'm swinging to the music of insectual buzz flowing through the air like water; birds of all instrumental persuasions--trumpets and saxaphones and flutes and windchimes--join the melody in rounds.

I feel like a blanket of dust has been peeled off me and I'm new again.

This world--this being human--is at times (most times?) confounding. One moment I'm fighting my body: scratching the bites that cover my skin like a map of conquered territories, islands set on flame; the illnesses of various origins I've tested within just a month and a half; bruises, blood--and then Bliss. I find myself in a state of ecstatic union with my earth form and I'm assuaged with aromas and flavors and serenity, thrown back into a bed of woven cotton or buoyant in a salty ocean bath.

Our last day in Langkawi, Emily and I dove under soft little waves off a sandy empty shore, when it started to rain. The drops were heavy like marbles, bubbling all over the surface of the water. We floated, soaking in a warm sea and the chilled drops rained on our faces. Beautiful boundless bliss. We left only because we had to--the constant motion of this trip, it takes my breath away.

And then today, just as I began to lose grip of my edges, I'm saved, washed ashore, this time on a hill. A cottage close to the clouds, far from the confusion of cities and the deafening dance music roaring from backpackers' bars and I'm with soulful companions and

Silence.

Who looks out with my eyes? What is

the soul? I cannot stop asking.

If I could taste one sip of an answer,

I could break out of this prison for drunks.

I didn't come here of my own accord,

And I can't leave that way.

Whoever brought my here will have to take me home.

This poetry. I never know what I'm going to say.

I don't plan it.

When I'm outside the saying of it,

I get very quiet and rarely speak at all.

...and then...

We have a huge barrel of wine,

                                       but no cups.

That's fine with us. Every morning

we glow and in the evening we glow again.

They say there's no future for us.

                                      They're right.

Which is fine with us.



lull

I'm enjoying a lull in island adventuring right now, due to a sudden downpour of rain (although monsoon season is mild and warm despite the current waves of water). The break is welcome, since I'm also just on the other side of severe illness. Nothing like the bronchitis I experienced in Israel....this time I learned the hard way that one should NOT drink the tap water in Malaysia.

Since Emily and I are now hiding out in our dry and cozy hostel, it seems like a good time to write. Although I have a feeling this will be much shorter than the normal entry, since I'm currently typing on my iPhone...such a handy little device....and yet such a small screen.

Emily and I are on Langkawi, a beautiful little paradise. The ocean is warm, the people are laid-back, at night the stars blanket the sky, and you can eat a meal for as little as a dollar. (Although I'm pretty sure the place where we ate a $1 lunch is also the source of my water poisoning.) The island caters to a pretty big tourist population and yet still maintains the charms of personal space and community for the locals. It is a great balance.

Yesterday, Emily and I stumbled upon a local scene while we were exploring the jungle. A giant picnic under a waterfall, with kids swimming on different tiers and mothers preparing plates of food on the surrounding rocks. The smaller boys leapt off an old metal sign perched on a ledge and into the shallow pool (I had a minor, mom-like freak-out upon seeing them, but they seemed perfectly fine). The older kids were at the top level, under the biggest part of the waterfall, snacking and chatting and daring each other to jump off the higher rocks. Em and I lingered for a few minutes before we continued our little adventure, passing private beaches where more families were enjoying a relaxing Friday afternoon together. 

Our day's travel was made possible by a motorbike we rented in the morning from a tourist shop.  Best idea ever. I don't know what possessed me to say, "Yeah, I can drive that thing," but lo and behold, I am one with the bike. On our way to the northern part of the island, the ride was mildly terrifying....sharp turns, cars full of dudes pulling up alongside us for polite conversation ("Hey hey hey!! How you doing?? Where you going??"), random and frequent monkey crossings, and all this while driving on the left side of the road. By the end of the day, though, I had gotten a much better feel for how to control the thing. Despite the lurch I felt in my stomach every time I saw a sign indicating a sharp right or left, I was positive that I could handle it with ease. Accelerate and lean in to the turns...stay in the left lane. True to my Angelean roots, I even passed the slower vehicles. It was a very exciting day.

The best part of our exploration was this little clear and gentle bay hiding off the side of the road. Fine and grainy sand, mostly locals with a couple other foreigners, beautiful trees around us and no boats in view. Emily and I were giddy, turning somersaults and doing handstands, floating on our backs like sea otters, saying over and over again, "This is a perfect day. I am so happy we're here." 

We were hoping for another perfect day to follow that one, but maybe this is just a different kind of perfect. The torrential rain is beautiful and resting feels wonderful. Besides, tomorrow should be a big adventure for us if the weather allows. Em is going to show me her driving skills on a jet ski and there are baby islands so close to us that we can see the sand lines. We have much more exploring to do.

oops

"You seem nervous. Is this your first time flying?"

Emily's passport is filled with stamps, so this accusation was a bit absurd. Any signs of nervousness were only her reaction to the intensity of the airport security guard. He drilled her with repetitive questions and held her passport behind his back as if she just might not get it back that day.

We hadn't eaten anything and we were running late for an international flight, and then, just as we got to the front of the security line, we were pulled aside for questioning. Airport security was concerned that we weren't leaving with the rest of our Birthright group, as well as by our relation. A straight-haired blonde and a curly brunette claiming to be sisters? Fishy. They focused in on the blonde.

Whispered Hebrew, sideways glances, and then they separated us so they could double-check her answers. When Emily had finally satisfied the guard with her consistency, he gave her an extra sticker to put on her passport. "This one's shady," it seemed to say.

Ever closer to the check-in counter, we laughed about the misfortune.

"Can you imagine what's going to happen when we try to leave Israel again, but after traveling an extra two months through India and Thailand?"

"O god. I'm going to get strip-searched."

We threw our bags onto the X-ray belt, laughing. I stopped laughing at the next obstacle.

"You." The uniform stared me down. Apparently it was my turn for extra inspection. The static group of angsty travelers in the new waiting area looked nearly as frustrated as me, all of us waiting for tediously slow baggage analysis. Forty-five minutes until boarding.

Emily hurried to the check-in counter to see if she could get both our boarding passes printed. Meanwhile, I waited. And waited. Thirty minutes before boarding, I heard a security guard call for my flight and I shouted, "HERE!" like I was snagging the last lifeboat on a sinking ship. We would not miss this flight. We would go to India.

My bag was rushed through the check point and I ran to where Emily stood, leaning on the counter in front of an apathetic woman who pretended she didn't see either of us.

"What's going on?"

"They say we need visas."

Emily and I had bought our tickets to India weeks prior, without any problems. We hadn't read up on the visa situation because, as far as we knew, we didn't need one for our brief amount of travel. Israel didn't require a visa, Thailand didn't. But India--the longest portion of our trip, the place we researched the most, the country I've obsessed over visiting for years--that was the place with the red tape.

At first, we were in disbelief. Then there were tears. But Emily and I finally womaned up and decided we could remedy the situation. We've made some blunders together in the past while traveling...nothing to this degree, but adequately screwed up enough to prepare us for disaster.

We spent the next four hours visiting the Indian embassy, then an intermediary travel agent. We filled out forms, took formal application photos, and handed over our passports to a sympathetic woman who told us, "Anywhere from a couple days to two weeks." Only then did we collapse on the bed of a dingy hostel, where we planted ourselves for the next four nights. Everything happens for a reason. Maybe we were supposed to stay in Israel a little while longer.

This would also be a good time to mention that on the day we were ready to leave for India, I hadn't yet reached the peak of what we would later determine was a bad case of bronchitis. It is just in the last day or so that I've started to get better--and much credit has to be given to my amazing traveling companion for taking my violent coughing in stride. I am so grateful for her calming presence and also that we are traveling together. Going through this madness as a pair brings a bit more humor to the situation. It also makes bronchitis a hell of a lot less miserable.

The plans are a mess, but at least we were given an opportunity to make the most of an unfortunate situation. More time in beautiful Tel Aviv is a far cry from disaster. Our crusty hostel turned out to be a happy oasis, one block away from the gorgeous, soft sandy beach and walking distance from some eclectic restaurants, the movie theatres (go see Looper!), plenty of markets, a post office, and everything else we could need in Limbo.

The past few days slowed us down and gave us a lovely little extension in Israel. A couple days ago, we decided to return to Jerusalem and--thanks to Birthright--we actually have friends up there to visit. A very generous guy who traveled with our group, Kobi, has arranged for us to stay with his girlfriend while we're there. Soon Emily and I will get to experience Shabbat dinner in a traditional, family setting. And, knowing Kobi, I'm sure we will also be experiencing at least one more impromptu hot chocolate session. (Kobi travels with a camping stove and supplies for hot beverages....he is always prepared with hospitality!)

As fun as it has been to explore Tel Aviv, I'm really looking forward to a change of scenery for the next few days....off we go to Jerusalem. The bus awaits.

A tea party from the past. (From left to right: Emily, Amanda, Yael, Kobi, Lewis)

here

Warm wind swirls brown leaves off the ground and carries the laughter and songs of a wedding celebration over Jaffa. The live music is bright and joyful, but there is also a nostalgic quality to its tone, haunting and beautiful. Stray cats leap from stone steps stretched out around us. The city lights across the way contrast with the dark ocean below the hill. This is our first night in Tel Aviv and the city has already swept me off my feet. 

Our tour guide, Yoav, tells us that even though he expects we will have lots of questions throughout the ten days of Taglit-Birthright, we should expect more questions and less answers. "You'll find a way to answer questions later."

***

The first night in Tel Aviv felt like a meditation on what was to come, a moment to reflect on how much I still have to learn about my Jewish roots--and about identity, community, and spirituality in general. My experience of being human is part of an unfathomably larger fabric of history. Perhaps in understanding that history better, I can come to understand my small part better. Israel is so rich with stories of the past, it feels consequential to simply stand on the soil. But then my exploration will also extend beyond Israel and take a turn into complete unfamiliarity in South East Asia. This is a testament to the even greater community of being human that extends beyond myself and my family and my notions of spiritual awareness.

My intention prior to leaving the USA was to find "clarity," to obtain a sense of security in my spiritual and emotional faculties. This seems more like the analytical agenda of my rational mind. The type of clarity I am really seeking isn't about feeling secure and placid, nor about finding answers and making conclusions. Yoav assured us that the more we learn, the more questions we will have. That sounds more like spiritual and self-exploration, doesn't it? Life is messy and expansive. True clarity, then, should light the way down the infinite path of exploration, so as to continue the search.

Before leaving, I put so much weight on this trip, as if it were to be the literal manifestation of my allegorical exploration of life. True, traveling, at its core, is always something like that. A person shakes off all the familiar and sets off into the unknown--that desire to shift scenery must come from a deeper desire to expand. But if I put too much emphasis on searching for clarity or finding answers, I might just miss the point. Much better to be here now.

The beginning of this trip kicked off with my 25th birthday. It feels like starting fresh, like a new phase--and I can't imagine a better place to begin than in Israel. This country is very special. Such a heavy past and so rich a culture, yet the atmosphere is welcoming and light.

We've been here only three days, but my Birthright group generally agrees that time is irrelevant--it might as well have been weeks at this point. So far our stay has been a fantastic blur of hummus, bus rides, political and religious discussions, hot thick air, dust, hookah, and fast bonding. The relationships we are building as a group--superficial as they might be after what is in actuality a very short time--feel surprisingly easy and organic. These are good people. Everyone is so open, they just come as they are.

I'm finding myself more grounded and clear-headed than I've felt in a very long time. I think it has something to do with the welcome familiarity of living out of a backpack and definitely from the laid-back group of people with whom I am lucky enough to travel. I feel free to be myself, passionate and curious and messy as ever. All my heavy expectations about what this trip could be are dissolving into the reality of what it is: I am in a magical place with a little community of beautiful people, waking up every day to wildly different experiences than I have ever had before.

Just yesterday we hiked through the Golan Heights. We ran up rocky paths and found shade from the sun in a cool tree tunnel arching over a stream. Later at Mount Bental, we stood on top of an old bunker and waved to Syria next door. Then last night, Emily and I led a mini drunken yoga session under the stars. Emily learned how to salsa dance and count to ten in Hebrew. Today, our entire group of forty-five sang together in an echoey, ancient citadel in Safed. Emily and I drank fresh squeezed pomegranate juice and ate our third meal of falafels.

And tonight, we are in Jerusalem. It's only day three....I'm in total bliss and blowing my mind.

mama

I graduated in May, yet this past summer was just as packed with growing pains as my years in college: a bonus semester, free of charge. In the span of a few months, I found myself in a new work environment, newly single, making new friends, and then moving to a new condo. I didn't have much time to stop and panic, so it is only in reflection that I am able to see how fluidly those changes transpired. As it turns out, when I'm strapped on time for over-analyzing, my instincts are remarkably reliable. This, my friends, is exciting news to me.

My monstrous move (So. Much. Furniture.) did provide a few moments of panic, but they were minor compared with my excitement. I actively participated in the purchase and design of a home, which, although time-consuming and stressful, was an awesome and creative project. I am also now living with my favorite person on the planet, my sister, Emily. I’ll go ahead and take this opportunity to share that she is coming with me on the trip. This was a last-minute, best-idea-ever decision.

I was prepared to travel alone, which was very empowering, but I am happy beyond belief to go on this pilgrimage with my sister. Emily is the perfect travel buddy. (And as I said to one person who seemed shocked at the amount of time we have now determined to spend together, “It’s a good thing we like each other’s company.”)
 

Another person who I adore, who has always been a rock through my life's transitions, is my mother. She patiently helped me to pack my apartment while I melodramatically declared that I wanted to throw away all of my earthly possessions. She stuck it out through the stressful period of box towers and feng shui furniture shifting, until we entered the fun phase of hanging pictures and cooking nice meals. The woman is truly a saint.

This last week, on the final day of decorating, she showed up ready to help us close the job, as if she hadn’t done enough already. This was maybe her 3^rd or 4^th night assisting us with “final touches.”

When I opened the downstairs door to let her into our building, my first thought was of what a beautiful person she is, inside and out. At 5’2” she is still a force of nature, a tiny woman with voluptuous hips and an angel-sweet smile. She was wearing an ethereal tie-dyed dress and had in her hand an electric drill box. Both Mother Goddess and Ruby the Riveter.

Once we were inside, she fastened her loose curls into a large clip covered in fuzzy yellow, pink, and purple balls. It was a Dr. Seuss sort of accessory and a childlike contrast to the aged silver hair she proudly grew long, despite protests she heard from her age-fearing peers. This is my mom in essence: she pulls off the appearance of being fun and eclectic (which she is, undoubtedly), but underneath her playful façade she is also a wise and feminine pillar of strength. Strong enough to grow her hair gray, to wield a power tool with ease, to set aside her own obligations for her those of her daughters without a second thought. 

At one point, after running to the hardware store for the umpteenth time, she smiled at me and said, “It makes me happy to help you. I’m doing this because it makes me feel good to help my girls.” My mom can come across as sort of a “people-pleaser,” a quality that I can not only relate to, but have often considered a weakness of my own character. Yet when my mom said that making us happy made her happy, she was helping me to see that there is nothing weak or self-sacrificial about going above and beyond for those you love. My mom gives of herself because it brings something into her life that makes her feel more complete. She's a nurturer through and through.

My mom has always empowered me to be true to myself and trust my instincts, but the lesson seems clearer when I witness her example. She pours herself into everything she does--including how she loves--because she is unapologetically herself. I am grateful for her example, but also for her channeling all that mother goddess love into helping me through the tougher transitions. The madness of moving is finally at a close with her undeniable assistance, and that leaves me with nothing to do but finish preparing for the trip. We leave in ten days....just enough time to wrap everything up (but definitely not enough time to stop and panic). Let the next phase begin.

flux

Liminal: It comes from the Latin limen, or threshold. I love the way the word rolls off the tongue, but I also love its significance, especially at this point in my life. "Liminal" refers to transition, to intermediacy.

The word came up time and time again in my Fairy Tale course during my last semester of college. There was something incredibly poetic about ending my university experience with a class about childhood stories. We read countless tales and interpreted their meanings through psychological analysis, symbolic references, and intuitive techniques, giving the tales a more mature depth in our understandings. The best part of the tales' recontextualization was that old familiar yarns like “Cinderella” and “The Three Little Pigs” were notably still pertinent in our lives as young adults.

Of all the themes we addressed, the most common was that of transitioning, of being in a liminal space or phase, and forging a path through the unknown. What could be more unsettling and unpredictable then leaving an almost 20 year occupation as a student and finding yourself thrust into the post-collegiate world? Yet the fairy tale promises happiness at the end of every liminal journey.

I've decided that I don't believe in the fairy tale “happy ending," but that is only because, in the wise words of lyricist Dan Wilson, "Every new beginning comes from some other beginning's end." Too true, Dan. Endings lead to beginnings, which lead to endings--and so what is at first scary about "the unknown" becomes oddly predictable. There is no stability in life, but rather a constant flux of everything always. What is alive must necessarily grow and change and regenerate, which is beautiful and amazing. Unless you're graduating from college and you don't know what you want to do with yourself. Then it is terrifying. 


I did my best to assert control over my situation. I got a paid internship right out of college, which was supposed to lead to a job and therefore stability. Scary state-of-unknown averted. But then about a month into my internship, I got off the waitlist for the Taglit-Birthright trip I had applied to back in February. This wouldn't just take me off the path of predictability, this would flip my world upside down. 

The email read, “If you can be spontaneous, you can still get to Israel in 2012! Birthright Israel has added more trips for August and October 2012 and we want you to go this year…Interested?”

Interested? I considered this a gift, a challenge. After all my efforts to be stable and predictable, spontaneous was exactly the sort of invitation I needed. As soon as my Summer commitments are fulfilled, I will have exactly a month to prepare for my trip. As timing will have it, my flight also leaves the day before my 25th birthday, another transition of sorts. I love the poetry of this situation. 

I’m taking off on my own and traveling for 9 weeks, first with the Birthright group and then solo in India and Thailand. I have no idea what’s going to happen while I’m traveling, but my

intention will be to relax into unpredictability and to learn absolute presence in each moment. With my eyes, ears, and heart all open, I'm sure I will have much to learn. And as I travel through a part of the world I know only from stories, I'm sure I will have much to write, as well. Here's to the next phase.