"What will this day be like?
I wonder.
What will my future be?
I wonder.
It could be so exciting,
To be out in the world,
To be free!
My heart should be wildly rejoicing.
Oh, what's the matter with me?
I've always longed for adventure,
To do the things I've never dared.
Now here I'm facing adventure
Then why am I so scared...''
-Rodgers/Hammerstein
I wonder.
What will my future be?
I wonder.
It could be so exciting,
To be out in the world,
To be free!
My heart should be wildly rejoicing.
Oh, what's the matter with me?
I've always longed for adventure,
To do the things I've never dared.
Now here I'm facing adventure
Then why am I so scared...''
-Rodgers/Hammerstein
It was a beautiful September day. Cloudless clear blue skies, air that felt like satin brushing against your skin as you moved through it, and a temperature just cool enough to be felt through the sweater I was wearing.
Route 80 out of Stroudsburg, Pennsylvania stretched before me like the yellow brick road leading to my first real adult adventure. I was leaving the New York metropolitan area, where I had lived since high school, and moving to Los Angeles with nothing more than a dream and a small suitcase filled with two outfits and a few small childhood treasures I couldn't part with. I was driving an extended family member's car across the United States for her. My destination was set, but the route and the timetable were mine to decide.
And I was terrified. Really terrified. I was good at surviving, coping, and adapting to my surroundings…as long as my surroundings were familiar and I had a job…or two…or three…I could depend on. I had stayed in the area long after my mom, sisters, and brothers had moved west. I had a small circle of friends and a strong band of fellow teachers I could count on as my surrogate family. I knew every square inch of our small town and I was fully vested in its future.
But I also longed for adventure. I wanted to know myself as more. More than how I had become comfortable in thinking about my life. I didn't want to wake up one day and discover that I had never pushed myself beyond what was familiar and comfortable. So when I was asked if I could drive a friend's sub-compact car cross-country, delivering it from Manhattan to Malibu, I said "yes" before I could think myself out of it.
I knew that once I had committed I couldn't go back. It was set in stone. My friend would be horrified to have to go back to her in-laws and tell them that I had flaked out on a commitment, and I could never do that to her. It was my way of painting myself into a corner that I already knew I would soon want out of.
And boy did I ever want out of that commitment once the date of my departure closed in. But I also know that I couldn't let myself down either. I wanted to strike out in a new direction. I wanted to discover more of the world than what I could absorb from all the reading I did…constantly. I wanted to see and experience the places I had, up to that point, only imagined through someone else's descriptions in a book.
I wanted to see an endless field of sunflowers stretching for miles under a wide, blue Kansas sky. I wanted to cross the "wide Missouri" instead of just teaching children a song about it. I wanted to breathe mountain air and swim in the Pacific...not just imagine it.
The late September afternoon I finally turned in the keys to my apartment, and set my little suitcase and shoebox full of treasures in the backseat, was traumatic for me. That little historic village had been my "hometown" since high school and anyone who reads this blog knows that as a child I didn't spend many years in the same place growing up. Six years in one town was a record and I had felt more settled, and at home, there than I had ever felt in my life.
I drove out of town and north along the river towards the Delaware Water Gap, crossing into Pennsylvania at dusk and through a veil of tears. As I started west on Route 80, a terror overtook me like I had rarely felt before. I pulled off at the first possible exit and found the Sheraton hotel where a friend's sister worked as a reservation clerk. My splotchy tear-stained face and tale of woe convinced her that I wasn't in any shape to drive through the night. She kindly asked her boss if I could stay in one of the rooms that hadn't been rented that night and before long I was standing in a quiet room with nothing more than a heart full of uncertainty.
Route 80 out of Stroudsburg, Pennsylvania stretched before me like the yellow brick road leading to my first real adult adventure. I was leaving the New York metropolitan area, where I had lived since high school, and moving to Los Angeles with nothing more than a dream and a small suitcase filled with two outfits and a few small childhood treasures I couldn't part with. I was driving an extended family member's car across the United States for her. My destination was set, but the route and the timetable were mine to decide.
And I was terrified. Really terrified. I was good at surviving, coping, and adapting to my surroundings…as long as my surroundings were familiar and I had a job…or two…or three…I could depend on. I had stayed in the area long after my mom, sisters, and brothers had moved west. I had a small circle of friends and a strong band of fellow teachers I could count on as my surrogate family. I knew every square inch of our small town and I was fully vested in its future.
But I also longed for adventure. I wanted to know myself as more. More than how I had become comfortable in thinking about my life. I didn't want to wake up one day and discover that I had never pushed myself beyond what was familiar and comfortable. So when I was asked if I could drive a friend's sub-compact car cross-country, delivering it from Manhattan to Malibu, I said "yes" before I could think myself out of it.
I knew that once I had committed I couldn't go back. It was set in stone. My friend would be horrified to have to go back to her in-laws and tell them that I had flaked out on a commitment, and I could never do that to her. It was my way of painting myself into a corner that I already knew I would soon want out of.
And boy did I ever want out of that commitment once the date of my departure closed in. But I also know that I couldn't let myself down either. I wanted to strike out in a new direction. I wanted to discover more of the world than what I could absorb from all the reading I did…constantly. I wanted to see and experience the places I had, up to that point, only imagined through someone else's descriptions in a book.
I wanted to see an endless field of sunflowers stretching for miles under a wide, blue Kansas sky. I wanted to cross the "wide Missouri" instead of just teaching children a song about it. I wanted to breathe mountain air and swim in the Pacific...not just imagine it.
The late September afternoon I finally turned in the keys to my apartment, and set my little suitcase and shoebox full of treasures in the backseat, was traumatic for me. That little historic village had been my "hometown" since high school and anyone who reads this blog knows that as a child I didn't spend many years in the same place growing up. Six years in one town was a record and I had felt more settled, and at home, there than I had ever felt in my life.
I drove out of town and north along the river towards the Delaware Water Gap, crossing into Pennsylvania at dusk and through a veil of tears. As I started west on Route 80, a terror overtook me like I had rarely felt before. I pulled off at the first possible exit and found the Sheraton hotel where a friend's sister worked as a reservation clerk. My splotchy tear-stained face and tale of woe convinced her that I wasn't in any shape to drive through the night. She kindly asked her boss if I could stay in one of the rooms that hadn't been rented that night and before long I was standing in a quiet room with nothing more than a heart full of uncertainty.
"…Oh, I must stop these doubts,
All these worries.
If I don't I just know I'll turn back!
I must dream of the things I am seeking.
I am seeking the courage I lack…."
All these worries.
If I don't I just know I'll turn back!
I must dream of the things I am seeking.
I am seeking the courage I lack…."
After a hot bath and a call to my mom, I began to calm down. I spent the next few hours quietly rehearsing all the reasons why I had felt so inspired earlier that summer to quit my teaching job, give up my apartment and launch out into the unknown. I had trusted something deeper than human reason…I had trusted that, at the root of my inspiration, there was a spiritually primitive hunger for growth. There was something so primal in me wanting to know that I could reach beyond my own limitations and expand outside the boundaries of fear and doubt.
Those few hours of quiet, alone with the source of my original desires, was all I needed. Without realizing it, I fell asleep waking at dawn to a brand new day and resurrected hopes.
I washed my face, dressed and wrote a quick thank you note to my friend's sister for her kindness. I was eager to begin my adventure. I was 25 years old and the world was opening its arms to greet my dreams with bright enthusiasm. I got behind the wheel of that bright green sub-compact and popped in one of the two cassette tapes I still owned.
I rolled down the windows and cranked the Sound of Music soundtrack up as loud as I could. Maria and I belted out our hard-fought for/hard-won enthusiasm for new adventures with full hearts..and in full voice. As the early autumn colors of the Pocono mountains became an impressionistic blur of the Mid-Atlantic's finest season I learned something new about myself. I leaned that I did have confidence, but not in me.
My new-found courage came from a place much deeper than the inherent limitations of mere human self-confidence…it came from the realization that something bigger was at the root of my desire to learn more about who I was and what I was capable of…and that something bigger was, even though I was a few more years from admitting it...God.
I have confidence in Him…
Kate
Those few hours of quiet, alone with the source of my original desires, was all I needed. Without realizing it, I fell asleep waking at dawn to a brand new day and resurrected hopes.
I washed my face, dressed and wrote a quick thank you note to my friend's sister for her kindness. I was eager to begin my adventure. I was 25 years old and the world was opening its arms to greet my dreams with bright enthusiasm. I got behind the wheel of that bright green sub-compact and popped in one of the two cassette tapes I still owned.
I rolled down the windows and cranked the Sound of Music soundtrack up as loud as I could. Maria and I belted out our hard-fought for/hard-won enthusiasm for new adventures with full hearts..and in full voice. As the early autumn colors of the Pocono mountains became an impressionistic blur of the Mid-Atlantic's finest season I learned something new about myself. I leaned that I did have confidence, but not in me.
My new-found courage came from a place much deeper than the inherent limitations of mere human self-confidence…it came from the realization that something bigger was at the root of my desire to learn more about who I was and what I was capable of…and that something bigger was, even though I was a few more years from admitting it...God.
I have confidence in Him…
Kate
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