What becomes of the traveler when she is back home? Who is she when she is finally rooted?
Does she cease to exist?
…
I’ve been grappling with these questions since returning home in May. And in doing so, I find myself somewhat defeated and deflated.
Acclimating to an old life always proves difficult, especially after returning from a longer trip.
My mother describes my periodic homecomings as “a dark cloud” hanging over me. She says that the storm usually dissipates after a few weeks of established routine. That’s when I turn light. And, as much as it pains me to admit it, I know that she is right.
I’m not my best when I’m grieving an adventure. Nobody is their best when they are grieving anything at all.
This summer was no different. In fact, I dreaded this summer. My normal feelings of insecurity were exacerbated by watching my other twenty-something friends getting promotions, getting married, and moving up in the world.
They had spent 3 years post-grad, hustling, hunkering down and climbing a corporate ladder. Their accomplishments were well deserved. The security they inherited was proportionate to their sacrificed freedom.
Meanwhile, I had been galavanting across three continents, making close to no money, and falling clumsily in and out of love with novel people and places.
Still, I found it somewhat ironic that the very childlike aura I strived to embody on the road, was now a point of contention in my inner monologue at home. Did my morals change when I crossed the equator?
…
I found that celebrating my closest friend’s life achievements over a coffee or cocktail stung more than doing so over the phone.
And, don’t get me wrong, it’s not that I wasn’t happy for their flourishing relationships, transformations, and accomplishments.It was just that, in recognizing the parts of them that felt so robust, the shallow parts of me felt exceptionally empty.
Did this make me a bad person? A bad friend? The eternal spiral prevailed.
There’s nothing I dislike more than envy. Nothing positive has ever come from wishing you had something you don’t.
Envy has never bred inspiration nor motivation for me. It has only bred resentment. Resentment for people I love, followed by repugnance for myself.
…
“You need to build.” Says my mom’s boyfriend one night over dinner. My mom nods in agreement. I graciously listen, chewing on my chicken a bit too long to distract myself from the familiar tickle in my tear ducts.
Knowing my family is invested in my wellbeing is a warm embrace. It hugs a bit too tight.
I can’t help but think about how fundamentally different our needs and wants are. It’s like my Maslow’s pyramid is somehow inverted. Maybe I’m broken.
In an effort “to build” I spend the next several weeks applying to every remote listing on my job board. I am ghosted from nearly all of them. But, I receive a call one day from a local agency that hires dog walkers.
I forget I even applied to the job. For some reason, any opportunity that wouldn’t immediately bolster my LinkedIn profile had taken the back burner. But, in a fit of financial desperation, I agree to the interview.
The call is casual. I take it barefoot in my driveway. I’m hired on the spot and I begin the following day.
…
It doesn’t take long for me to understand that this seasonal gig may actually be the most important job I’ve ever worked before.
For the next three months, I drive around town, picking up dogs from their respective houses, and chauffeuring them to the woods to hike off leash for hours.
I move my body all day. My mental health has never been better. It’s not a coincidence.
Deep in the Connecticut woods nobody can hear me talk to myself except for the trees and the dogs. Neither of them tell my secrets.
When it storms, the trees outstretch their branches to shield us from the rain. The dogs bark when I dance. They don’t wait for the perfect conditions to seize the moment.They wag when I flail my arms around and fall cumbersomely into puddles of mud.
We meander aimlessly through the woods and across cold streams. We have no agenda other than to pass the time. My mind is slow. It’s not focused on things like “building.” I can breathe deep enough to remember that I’m human here. I’ve found that walking is the best form of being human.
I forget about the to-do list I wrote that morning with the million and one urgent things that turn out to be not so urgent after all. ( I’ve been procrastinating them for weeks and the sun still seems to rise on time most mornings.)
On the few bad days, the ones where I wake up on the wrong side of the bed, I reach over to my passenger seat and stroke the fur of whatever innocent creature occupies the space. When I turn around there’s five more in the backseat, their beautiful dark eyes-glossed over. They seem to ask me “where are we going today, human?”
I wake up at six am sharp. I journal and meditate. I walk.
I say a prayer. First in my head and then out loud. I talk to myself about my dreams. I lay in a field and watch butterflies. My cheeks are rosy from sunburn. My clothes are muddy. I don’t care. The dogs don’t either. I walk.
I listen to my favorite songs on repeat and then unplug so I can hear the birds. I mimic their whistle and one sings back.I walk some more.
I scream “thank you.”
There is a certain peace I’ve only ever come to know on the road. It’s when I am most myself. But, here in the woods of my hometown, I find this familiar feeling.
It’s My Summer of Dogs. A Tonic for my soul. It’s looking just far enough so you don’t fall over rocks, but not too far forward so that you miss your turn. I know these trails like the back of my hand.
May becomes September. And, the coordinates of my childhood home fill me with the same exuberance I’ve only ever found in exotic places.
