Sitka or Bust: Commute The World

I’m scared. It’s always hard to say that. The stiff upper lip isn’t supposed to shake and it damn well shouldn’t be accompanied with doubt. The stiff upper lip is stable, secure in its position on the face.  It know its purpose and it knows resolve.

That isn’t me right now.

I’m not too trusting, I guess.  I’m waiting for that other shoe to drop, the sharp crack of the sole on the tile as it startles me awake from my pleasant dream. I don’t feel secure, which is strange considering this is the most secure I’ve been on my own. I’m reluctant in my spending, but know that I can afford to put a new engine in my car if need be. I’m not constantly looking for a new place to stay, or a new job that will pay me minimum wage. I’m over that.

But I’m not.

There was something comforting in that uncertainty.

I think if you’re barely scraping by in life you can appreciate it more, find a thrill. I definitely did. It wasn’t easy and it wasn’t pleasant half the time, but you knew that if it didn’t work out it was easy enough to scrap the plan and move on. Sure, there weren’t tons of jobs out there that were cushy and plumb, but you could find work. I always found work doing the weird shit that not many people enjoyed enough to stay long-term. Hell, if I’d stayed long-term I probably wouldn’t have enjoyed it myself.

I’d pack my bag, finish my term, and mosey off to the next opportunity. I was a migrant. Half the time a vagabond. It was hauntingly beautiful, but devastatingly lonely. I can’t imagine it would have been more than an ill-fitting way of life. I mean, how many times can you uproot that tomato plant before it stops recovering from the move? Something always gets left behind. Maybe the tip of the root, a leaf, a clod of soil. The air still smells acidic.

I like putting down roots. I do. But at the same time, it’s hard to spread out in my garden bed when I’m used to a travel container. I guess I’ve been trained to expect the move, to keep my roots tightly wound around me so now that I can sprawl outwards there’s a permanent crick in me that pains the movement. Slowly, moving one millimeter at a time I can branch out and it won’t hurt so badly.

Then there’s always the chance that I’ll need to be uprooted but have sprawled too much. The move will surely kill me then. You can take your time, but no matter how gingerly you separate the tendrils from the soil, they’ve clutched to something that can’t be taken with. And let’s face it; I’m not the slowest to move.