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[don't kid yourself]
[talk to me]




    > 2002





<!-- September 12, 2003 -->

Cape Tribulation is silent.

The silence is deafening.

The rattle of tree leaves scrapes across my ears when a breeze manages to break through the crowded tangle of stillness. A loud rustle as a stray leaf drops to the ground.

I can almost hear the flutter of butterfly wings as one lands on my sarong, enamoured of its bright poppy print.

Somewhere in the distance, a high pitched whine carries through the air. A far-off generator, perhaps.

Another light breeze and the crash of leaves is like a violent sudden downpour.

The butterfly dances away, its desires frustrated and I'm reminded of a favourite poem, "Flying Crooked". Despite all their magest, it says, the birds have never mastered the butterfly's art of flying crooked.

And suddenly I feel lighter. There is more than one way to travel. One can fly straight and smooth, or hop along, chasing some interesting aspect, or flit here and there, up and down, landing wherever something pretty takes your fancy.

I have noticed a breed that deems themselves "the real traveller", who subscribe to the flitting strategy and look down on all that do not choose this method. They criticise those with a plan, declaring there are no rewards for this kind of foresight. Such plans take all the romance and pleasure gained from enduring hardships out of the "real adventure", or so such hardened travellers claim. Thus deflating the ballon of the straight-flying planner, they continue on their delicately chaotic way.

I recognize and regret that I have allowed these adventureers to make me feel embarassed about my trael plans. I realize that in these journies, we all have our own style. And while mine may not be fashionable in the world of travel, I have never thought of myself as a trend-setter anyway. I'm always a comfortable distance away from being cool.

Maybe next season I'll be ready. Perhaps my wings will have strengthened enough or my confidence in flying will have increased to a point where dips and twirls, pauses and surges will exhilerate instead of terrify.

"Do what you want, not what you think you should do," I once told someone.

And she served it right back to me when I needed it. So, even though I feel like I should start on my walks to the headland and lovely freshwater swimming holes in the area, I'm still sitting on the verandah of my cabin, writing, after my uplifting hour of yoga, my leisurely muesli-and-local-bananas breakfast and a savoured cup of tea as the sun climbs towards noon.

I feel strong and cetred as I always do after yoga. I feel nourished by the fresh air in my lungs, filled to their limits. My body is rejoicing in the simple, delicious meal and luxuriating in the time I have given it to be still.

I am no different than I was yesterday. My soft belly still puffs out from where my tank top rides up. The stretch marks on my lefs and back still scream of both a fleshier and thinner times.

But suddenly, my muscles are more defined, my skin smoother, my movements more supple and elegant, myself more at peace with the world.

I make a promise to follow my heart more, to do more yoga in order to discover that heart. Promises that I might forget tomorrow. But, for now, I'll go for a swim.

my journal

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