Seven days ago I was getting ready to climb a mountain.
Seven days from now, I will be climbing on a plane. It’s curious how much can change in a handful of hours.
The time has slipped by, and I’ve loved the daily rhythm that’s emerged in this short summer at home. Whatever the day holds, it always seems to lapse into research of whichever city I’m curious about, learning about its colorful streets or quaint restaurants. I am beyond excited.
And yet, for no apparent reason, tonight I find myself pacing back and forth across my living room, monologuing aimlessly to my ever-patient mother, craving clarity more than I’ve ever craved chocolate.
Seven days, I repeat to myself. Seven. All of a sudden, that blessed, short, exciting number takes on a worrisome tinge.
My mind starts racing, looking for all the reasons I can’t possibly be ready to leave in that brief time. I don’t like to have every aspect of a trip planned out, by any means, but still it all seems too easy! Surely I’m missing something!
But no. Well, yeah, I’m sure I’ll end up forgetting my toothbrush or something, but for the most part the major things are in order. My passport is valid, my backpack is ready to be filled, and heaven knows my Spanish is as good as it’s going to get.
I’m hesitant to think that I’m less ready to leave home than I thought. I thought this part was supposed to get easier the more you did it, not harder. Maybe you’ve felt like this too? You know your next step is right, but shoot. That transition between old and new leaves you shaking in your boots.
The pacing has subsided by now and I’m writing this with a peaceful mind. (I mean hey, I’m lounging around in my mom’s comfy robe, how could I not be peaceful?) Excitement swallows up the worries. Tonight, with seven days left until I spiral into the unknown, I learned that I can let my boots shake…and then put one right in front of the other. I’m sure I’ll learn this many times over as the summer goes on.
Here’s to getting to where you need to be, one stepping stone at a time.