On Thanksgiving morning, I woke up in the old, creaky wooden bed in my grandfather’s house in Nashville. Mind you, it had become a routine occurrence to wake restlessly, feeling unfulfilled, for the last couple months.
It's not that I was unhappy with the life I had created in Austin. It was the music capital of the world. I worked alongside a great bunch of excellent massage therapists that made me feel very welcome.
Creating a new chapter from scratch was all very magical; I sold my car to invest in a scooter, a bicycle, one month’s rent, and the chance at a job interview in the heart of Texas. After running around Dallas for a couple weeks getting ready for the move, I was finally unloading the U-Haul, with the help of my two free-flowing traveler (hippie) friends. I remember, my first night after unloading, we drove the U-Haul downtown and parked it off of Lamar and 7th Street beside an abandoned building covered with faces and quotes from Jimi, Jim, and Martin Luther King Jr. The three of us just started walking, with Heidi (Matt's beautiful mountain dog). We decided to grab a couple beers and explore the town. We strolled up 6th, listening to music and meeting people. The drunken college folk, the crazy homeless people, the normal homeless people, the older parents who acted just as childish as the college folk - it was a playground. The three of us seemed to connect the most with the homeless folk. We grabbed more beers and smoked a joint with a talkative black man that liked Heidi and seemed to know the area rather well. He was friendly, yet questionable. We went down to a creek area closer to Highway 35, and Heidi played in the water while we entertained ourselves with some sort of makeshift drinking game. Finally, we made our way back to my new apartment. Everything was so new and exciting. There was so much to explore.
After about eight months, the magic seemed to be almost gone. The days seemed to get more and more predictable. I helped relieve the pain of others, met new people, and worked in a laid back, cool environment. I had found the spots I liked downtown to go dancing and have drinks by now. I met lots of people. I had friends visit me and showed them around. It was going so well, really. But inside I was dying, or that’s what it felt like. I couldn't really believe that this chapter would last much longer; I needed to get out. I needed a "real" adventure.
My good friend, and teacher of sorts, at work sensed my agony of redundancy. In early October, she was surfing the web and stumbled across an adventure opportunity I might get a kick out of. I didn't look at it for weeks. Why would I? Why wouldn’t I? I don't really know. Laziness? Fear? Disappointment?
For some reason, when I woke with the pain of conformity that quiet night in Nashville, the link my friend sent came to the forefront of my racing thoughts. Everything else seemed to fade out ever so slightly as I curiously searched for that link. After reading the short description of this adventure, of this non-profit bicycle trip around the country, I was filled with hope and certainty. If I remember correctly, tears of joy came from nowhere. I had asked the greater good, everyday it seemed, "What do I do about this need for freedom?" Finally, here was my answer! What were the odds? Was this too good to be true? Was I too late? Overflowing with gratefulness, I started to double-check the ad for error. Eventually delving deeper and finding my way to the non-profit’s webpage (www.theyp.org), I emailed the leader of the expedition (who had posted the ad) immediately. Here was my answer. I had finally found the scissors with which I could cut the ties to my ordinary life - the same ties that had slowly began to sever weeks ago. Little did I know, 1 year, 7,000 miles, and 8 strangers later, I was informed that I had opened the doors of the wardrobe.
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