so many different choices in the world! I want to figure out what to do with my life.”
Bill, a successful but life-weary artist, exhales heavily and says, “I hope this vision quest helps me find a renewed sense of purpose.”
When it’s Faith’s turn, she begins passionately, “I just adore my beautiful children and love raising them!” Then her voice becomes soft. “But I’ve lost my identity outside of being a mother. I came here to remember who I am.”
The woman next to her looks like she’s on the verge of sprinting out of the circle and as far away from the group as possible. “My name is Julie. I’ve recently stopped doing drugs, but I still hate myself.” She shifts uncomfortably in her seat, grateful when the next person chimes in.
Karen is a young doctoral student in her twenties. “I’m way too much in my head,” she tells us. “I want to get back in touch with my emotions.”
Across the circle, Annie is making little piles of dirt all around her like miniature sand castles, quietly delighting in her own creations. When it’s her turn, she says, “I think I’ve been in my computer programming job for too long; I’ve forgotten how to play.”
“And you, Laurie?” Sparrow prompts me.
Wow, what can I say? The thing is, I don’t have one big issue I want to overcome, like a death or addiction, or just one uplifting goal, like learning to play. My reason for being here is messier than that. My life has been a cycle of ups and downs, of outward success and inward pain, a complex brew of near unbearable sadness and ecstatic joy, sometimes in succession and sometimes all at the same time.
Growing up wasn’t easy for me. My best years were my college days and my twenties. I felt so alive then—adventurous, open, and free. In my thirties, I somehow lost all that, diving into a deeper darkness than any I’d experienced before.
Back in the circle, all eyes are on me, waiting for me to speak.
How can I sum up in one brief statement how numb and frozen I’ve been over the last ten years, my recent “thawing” process, and my intense desire to return to who I really am, to that person who’s so passionate and happy?
Maybe I should just blurt out everything I’m going through: I’m sick and tired of wearing a “happy mask” when I’m actually sad inside. I hate feeling hurt and wounded all the time; my anger and pain are exhausting. I’m tired of being a workaholic, distracting myself from my pain. I take everything too personally and constantly beat myself up or get defensive. I’m tired of opening up to people, then being betrayed by them. I don’t trust anyone anymore. I feel disconnected from everyone and everything. I’m tired of people criticizing and judging me, and me judging and criticizing them and myself. I want to meet my soul mate, but I’m afraid I’m so guarded from all the times I’ve been hurt that I won’t be able to let him in. I want to know where I’m going in life, and I’m fed up with fear holding me back from being all I can be. Basically, I don’t feel lovable or worthy a lot of the time, and I’m freakin’ sick of it!
How did I get to this point?
Whose Kid Is This?
Follow Your Bliss, Even If Other
People Don’t Approve
A week after I graduated from college, my parents sat me down in the family living room, looking anxious and perplexed. I had just announced that I was leaving to backpack around the world by myself. I had no set itinerary or pre-arranged destinations; my only plan was that I would explore for at least a year.
“Just tell us why!” My mother buried her head in her hands, as if I had just killed someone.
Looking at me earnestly, my father said, “You graduated with high honors. You won a fellowship to the American University in Cairo, and you have a job offer from your German professor. Is this really what you want to do?”
Clearly, my parents weren’t as excited about the idea as I was.
“How are you going to pay for this?” my mom asked.
“I’ve got a summer job leading a group of high school students on an exchange trip through New Zealand and Australia. My flights and expenses are all paid, and I can extend my return ticket for up to a year. After the kids leave, I’ll stay and see where the winds blow me.”
“But how will we get in touch with you?” She shot a worried look at my dad.
There were no cell phones yet and no Internet cafes for the wayward traveler.
“I could fax you once a month to let you know where I am and that I’m okay.”
“Once a week.”
“Once every two weeks.”
“Deal,” my dad said, patting my mom on the shoulder.
Two months later, I was sitting on a bunk bed in a youth hostel in Christchurch, the largest city on the South Island of New Zealand. As I kicked off my shoes, the magnitude of my decision hit me: I was out in the world alone, indefinitely.
When I was ten, I went to a sleep-away camp in Vermont for two months, my first time being away from home for more than a night. I missed my house and parents so much that, one day, I just walked out of the arts and crafts shed and through the camp’s main gate. “I can make it home to New Jersey from here,” my little ten-year-old self decided determinedly. I was a mile down the road before they found me.
My stomach cramped with nausea as a wave of intense loneliness and fear passed through me. Maybe I should just go home and look for a job. What am I going to do out here? Where will I go? What the hell was I thinking?
My bunkmate had a wine bottle with a thick, woolen sock over it strapped to her backpack.
“What’s with the wooly wine?” I asked.
“I just came back from working on a sheep farm that’s also a vineyard. Want the number?”
“So, can you cook?” asked the voice on the phone in a thick New Zealand accent.
“Yes sir.”
“Do you ride horses?”
“Not in years, but I used to ride quite a bit as a kid. Did show jumping and everything.”
“How soon can you start?”
