Today in the cab the fear set in. I believe it took its familiar seat in my heart in the morning but during my cab ride into town, sans connectivity to the electronic world to distract me, it made itself known and continued to expand like a ferocious virus. Inside the solitary confinement of a vehicle fear gripped my mind and ran with it. The cycle of thoughts that have been plaguing me since my arrival in Sri Lanka dominated any faith I had in the future to the point of tears. I couldn’t sit in traffic another moment. For ten minutes which seemed like 10 days, that cab was my personal prison.
A kind soul had granted me access to an amazing hotel to sit poolside and stare at the ocean, swim in the lap worthy salt pool and relax. That’s where I was headed. Instead of feeling giddy with excitement at this generous invitation, I was sad. What was wrong with me?
Almost eight weeks after I departed Austin, this trip can no longer be considered an escape or vacation. While I didn’t feel like I was running from anything in particular back home, maybe I was. From my fear of the unknown. The answer to “what’s next”?
Coming to a pool and chilling by the Indian Ocean felt like a luxury I couldn’t afford. Figuratively and literally. I have no job right now. No consistent source of income. And yet I know I can’t go back to doing the same thing I was doing.
While I can see what lies before me, as I mentioned in my last post, I have no clue how to get there. Or, like a mirage in the middle of the desert, if it’s even a real.
I don’t want to struggle any more. Even though I know these past three months will be remembered as nothing less than priceless treasures and, logistically, everything has gone relatively smoothly (i.e. No major medical catastrophes other than a minor tooth procedure) I’ve wrestled with enough struggle in the past 7 weeks to last me a while. Both internally and externally.
While money may not buy happiness it sure can make a bumpy ride a bit more comfortable. It can buy conveniences. Things like air conditioning. A nice hotel. Taking a cab wherever, whenever I feel like it no matter the cost. Good clean healthy food. Turns out, not unlike the States, vegetables are more expensive than rice and carbs here but to such an extent that they are not found on any menu in abundance. A premise I have that is confirmed when I receive lunch. I order ceviche – a “Tower of avocado, fresh seafood ceviche, micro greens, mango and pineapple”. It arrives and I see no “tower”. Just a tiny scoop of some sort of tasteless fish with mayo and an inch of diced avocado. All to the tune of $12. Not a grand sum of money I understand but considering it would have required I eat no less than five of them to fill the tank, it could have been considered a $50 meal. I request cucumber and carrot sticks, something even a local bar in the states can accommodate for relatively cheap and I get handful of cabbage with small slivers of carrot and cuke. I’m starved so I gobble my seafood sampler and resort to something I’ve gotten used to taking more than I’d like – bread and butter.
I re-read this well aware I sound like a whiney five year old stomping her feet because she wanted chocolate and all they had was vanilla. But when you are wrestling with fear and worry and anxiety and hunger and constipation, the struggles feel real. You crave ease, comfort and access to a small trust fund.
The crashing waves offered a small respite from my mind – assurance that everything will be just fine.
But as I pay my bill, the saltwater pouring from my eyes is a not too subtle reminder that no amount of external comfort or beauty will offer me peace today. It is something I have to find for myself.
Money may buy comfort and assurance. However, usually, such ease comes at the sacrifice of growth and learning. I try to remember this today and every day here on the road.