I can feel a tear hovering on my
cheek; the breeze does nothing to disturb it.
The droplet lingers—frozen—then gradually evaporates. I gaze at the stars the only way I know
how: in reverence. I don’t pray, but this is what I imagine
prayer to be like. The wind gently
brushes my sun-tipped hair away from my face; the ringlets scatter over my
shoulders and flutter down my back. Why
was I crying? I can’t remember.
This trip is a landmark in my
life. The date changes every year, but
the significance does not. It marks the
time in my life—two years ago—when I stopped sitting in the shadow of a man,
and I started saying Yes.
Before butchery, before archery, before
motorcycling and moonlighting as a sideshow carnie, before people started
telling me things like, “I wish I had your life,” “You’re such a badass,” and “You’re
always doing something different,” all I did was play soccer and go to my
boyfriend’s gigs. If you can believe it,
I was a pushover—a waif—a girl barely there.
And then one day I just couldn’t do it anymore. I couldn’t sit in my assigned seat, and
associate with my assigned company any longer.
For a moment I stood outside myself.
And then the words came—words he had teased me with for two months: “Maybe we should just break up.” And goddamnit, I said YES.
And then I mourned. I understand now that I was mourning the
death of a large part of my life, a long-present part of myself: the submissive. And its end meant the start of something
else—something unknown—in essence, something terrifying.
I had no idea what I was getting
myself into the first time I signed on for this trip. I was completely unprepared.
And
I had the time of my life.
I know I don’t have to do this. In fact, with all the recent back and foot
issues I’ve been having, I probably shouldn’t. It’s dangerous. (Well. . . .)
I could get hurt. (Psh.) All my shit could fall out of the canoe and
be forever lost to the river (YIKES). And
for a fleeting moment, I don’t want to go because of what I have here at
home. But I can’t bail now and leave my
canoe partner . . . well, up a creek.
So why do it then? Why sleep on the ground, poop in a hole, get
bit by bugs, possibly sunburned, and go unwashed for three days of dirty, sweaty,
stinky disgustingness?
It is a trial.
It’s
both physically and mentally strenuous, living without the luxuries of
civilization for a few days. Not just
living: traveling. We’re not sitting still.
It is an escape.
What am I escaping?
The city. The rush.
The stress. The bullshit. The obsession with things. Preoccupation with
appearances. Work. Bars. People. Men.
Women. Friends. Family.
Facebook. Gossip. Traffic.
Pollution. Steel. Asphalt.
Glass. Concrete.
So I trade my car for a canoe, my
makeup for sunscreen, perfume for bug spray, fans and air conditioning for
sunlight and wind. I trade my home of
brick for a four-foot-by-six-foot tent, for a place where there is a river for
a road, a wood fire for an oven, the moon for a nightlight, and in place of
roaring engines, blaring music, sirens, phone calls, text messages, emails,
IMs, alerts, and tweets, there is . . . cricket song . . . frogs croaking . . .
water rushing past . . . there is just . . . peace. A place to breathe, where you can see every
single star.
That’s why I do it.
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