I spent my teen years in a never ending daydream.
Sitting in class, making up elaborate scenarios of how in 10 minutes, I’d walk out of school, get my passport from home and drive to the airport. I wrote detailed stories on the back of math books, drew pictures between equations, of whales, and waves, and all the things I wanted my life to be.
How I’d escape to a sun-drenched elsewhere, anywhere, as long as it was far, far away.
10 months a year were waiting, dreaming, until another summer was here, then gone, and I did it all over again.
Breaks were spent on tumblr, endlessly, aimlessly scrolling through travel blogs, my nights in at home, with books and surf films, but my head was always elsewhere.
So when senior year came to an end, and everyone at home enrolled at Uni, (because of course, what else would they be doing?) I packed my bags and left (because of course, what else would I be doing?)
I spent the summer in Europe, a solo trip to Paris, a couple weeks in Spain, surfing, sunbasking, dreaming of all the adventures to come.
And as soon as the winds got sharper, days got shorter, I left, with no real intention of ever coming back.
I spent my first few months in India, living and volunteering at an ashram, and I was so happy to be there. It felt like coming home in a sense, since I’d grown up so heavily influenced by that country.
But somehow, I still found myself daydreaming of other places, other things, escaping. I didn’t get it, wasn’t this all I’d ever wanted? So when it was time to go back home for christmas, I was deeply ambivalent, because for the first time in my life, I was excited to see Vienna.
I cried for hours when it was time to leave the ashram, and that’s when i realized how much I’d grown to love that place, the kids, the elders, the whole family. How grateful I was for my time there. It hadn’t been easy, but that had nothing to do with the place itself, if anything it made an unbearable time a little more bearable.
It saved me, healed me, changed me, taught me more than I’m even aware of.
After an extended Christmas trip back home (thank you infected wisdom teeth), and some plan (life) changes that made me feel like the ground was falling out from under my feet, I finally made it to Sri Lanka. A dreamy month of surf, new friends and pink skies ensued, and it felt like me and traveling were back in our honeymoon phase.
India and my yoga teacher training ripped me right back out of that cushy little dream, with icy himalayan nights, hailstorms in may and daily 5:20am wake up calls. It was so uncomfortable on so many levels, but at the same time, it was one of the most beautiful, transformative experiences of my life.
By the end of it however, I couldnt wait to move on, to what I thought might be that sun-drenched elsewhere I’d been dreaming about.
So then there was Indonesia. I’ve tried writing about it dozens of times, trying to put it all into words, but the end product never felt right. (I’ll try writing about it again, and hopefully come up with something I like enough to put it on here.)
What I can say now is that was one of those places that I got instantly, intensely attached to, and it turned into a what feels a lot like home now. Lots of growing happened there, lots and lots of crying for what felt like no reason, lots of layers shed.
And then there were moments, in the ocean, on the backs of scooters, at the beach with friends, that felt like bliss, like all the freedom, all the carefree, overwhelming happiness I always thought escaping would give me. But no matter how far I went externally, I never got it handed just like that. I had to do the inner work first, let go of a whole lot of inner resistance, learn to let go, accept the present moment as it was, over and over again.
But I think that’s the most important part.
Love, Mira
(Also will start posting random little gap year snippets, so look out for thooose:))