As I sit down to write this, it has been exactly six months to the hour that I boarded a plane to leave behind my life in the states.
I know that I'm not quite ready to write about the events, thoughts and emotions that led up to making the decision to leave. I think about it often, and it all seems so simple sometimes and so complex at other times, that I don't think any amount of writing about it will ever feel right. The whole thing is slowly becoming one of those things that's like a secret little gift to myself.
No longer in my twenties, I sometimes feel like I've done this a bit late in my life. And most times I feel so thankful I did it when I did. I talked myself out of it with countless excuses for over ten years. Looking back at those ten years, they were pretty freaking amazing. I'll save that for another post.
I have had a lot of uninterrupted time with myself these past six months, very few distractions, and a whole lot of insights gained, and lots more to come I'm sure.
You know how we go through life already carrying a big 'ol suitcase of idioms, cliches and just all-around cultural and social tidbits that are just generally accepted? And so we say yeah, yeah, yeah I know, I know. But then something happens, like a frying pan against the skull, where you think OK, I thought I knew it then, but I really know it now.
Or it's like wearing a raincoat made of all that stuff, and you can feel the weight of the rain against the coat to let you know something's happening, but you're still shielded from it by that nice slick coat. But in your guts you know how good a rain storm against your skin will feel, but you keep wearing that coat. Until one rainy day...
Anyway, the number one thing I'm taking away from these last six months, is I'm never again ignoring my guts. They know more than my brains ever did or ever will.