It was the end of Spring, 2013. I was BURNT OUT (all the caps and all the feels). Having accumulated more than 300 hours of paid time off I desperately needed to use it. However, having over-extended my delayed decision to the brink, I was not in a state of mind to settle on a date to do so. I couldn’t even begin to think (without a surge of anxiety and panic) of committing to an airline ticket with its precise boarding times; working in enough time to make my way through 20 miles of traffic, navigating parking in the cheap lot (that was still $15/day) to hop on the transport bus that would drop me at the terminal a couple more miles away. Nor the winding security lines that would strip this nearly bare soul of her jacket, belt and shoes, while I produced and added to them my plastic baggie of miniature liquids along with certain electronics. The entirety of which would gush down the conveyor belt into a crushing heap (between and on top of and underneath those items of the travelers in front of and behind me) as I frantically tried, simultaneously, to get re-clothed and gather all the belongings back into my carry-on. Herded like a heifer onto the airplane that will barely allow me to stand upright; clutching my astronomically-priced over-heated coffee and my carry-on, I maneuver the miniature isles hoping that I’ll be the first in the row, so I can delicately twist myself and my things into the teacup-sized seats in their knee-bruising rows without spilling my prized cup of caffeinated comfort. And of course you and I both know that this lovely adventure comes with a firm time to return and do all of that again. Mustn’t change your mind about coming back without being willing to pay more than half of the original ticket! Thinking of returning to the nightmare before I had even escaped it would have prematurely undone me.
Instead I decided that one day when I woke up and was ready to leave, I would pack some things, gas up the car and go. And when I did so on the other end, I would return.
On that bright afternoon, when I arrived down at my car, Bunny was buckled into the front passenger seat ready to go. A little basket of snacks was tucked in just behind the seat on the floorboard. I had gifted Bunny with its long floppy ears to my two year-old niece earlier in the year. She wanted it to keep me company for as long as I’d be gone. It began with that simple action. A gifting of her prized possession for an unknown amount of time. A gesture of love and support.
Bunny and I headed east out of town. I drove until I was ready to stop, got a hotel room, rested and did it all again the next day; and the next; and the next. As I saw things that caught my eye and interest we would stop at explore.
The photo above was taken in Utah on a rock cliff that I was fearful to venture onto. I get sweaty palms after step three on a ladder. And yet, I felt compelled to do something different, something that stretched me. The BURNOUT had taken much from me; some fear included.
That day, I remember getting out of my car alongside a family emerging from theirs. I don’t speak French but I could tell from their faces — as I emerged with Bunny and my camera — they were taken aback. What mentally challenged adult is simple enough to be traveling with a stuffed bunny, yet capable of driving a car, alone? Turning self-consciousness into amusement, I allowed myself to laugh at what they must be thinking. Had they spoken English, I likely would have fallen into the trap of explanation and justification of my actions; I’m grateful they didn’t (or that they refused admit to me they did).
From then on, I embraced my traveling companion and took loads of photos everywhere we went. I met strangers who were curious and not afraid to talk with me. I met with friends and family, and they took photos with Bunny. We travelled to another six states. We sat on the riverbank in Colorado watching rafters pass by. We went horseback riding in Oklahoma. We stayed at a motel where baby goats greeted us in the parking lot, after a flat tire left us stranded. We got lost in Southern California where cell service was not a thing. We sat atop of the ridges of the Grand Canyon and enjoyed the warm sunshine. I still have a rock from that place that reminds me of my little accomplishment that day in the red cliffs of Utah.
A year or so later, I went to Europe with two stuffies that I had designed and created (with much gratitude for my sister-in-law who actually knows how to use a sewing machine). I took lots of carefully poised pictures and posted our adventures to Instagram. But traveling with two around Europe did not come as easy as the first trip had done. I thought of creating a book or a perpetual Insta of other adventures with these two characters but without anything really clear and compelling. I wished I had better plans for running into folks who were curious and asked what I was up to. This grand idea went nowhere and had, to a certain extent, cramped my travel experience.
Perhaps one day I’ll have a clear vision for what my traveling companions and I can share with with those who would be interested. For now, I am okay with allowing the two experiences to teach me just a little about engaging with this wonderful world around me.
This blog allows me to practice trying one thing — writing — that brings me joy (and fear). To succeed or fail — and likely both — with some skin in the game by making it available to anyone who would care to read, comment, or criticize it. Trying and failing, perhaps succeeding, I put one foot in front of the other, and remain open to see where it will take me. There is much about life that is available to us if we keep our time flexible and ourselves open to experiences, ideas, others and, yes, solitude.
The Joy Experiment 
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