The days when I drive around listening to old CDs from high school with scribbled-on titles such as “Lemon Zest” or “Kittens, Baby Legs, and Sharp Cheddar Cheese.” (None of these titles provide clues as to what might be on the disc, but I take the gamble.) They’re a terribly odd mix of Paul Simon, Tech Nine, Justine Timberlake, and the love song from Titanic. I flip my turn signal and drive around aimlessly. Occasionally I’ll shout, “I’m going to Mongolia.” But the unknown of that future makes it sound like it ends with a question mark. “I’m going to Mongolia?”
I’m six weeks away from my two-year trip. I’ve fallen into a similar waiting time (or purgatory perhaps) that I’ve experienced before. That sticky spot of time before you leave your comfort for the unknown. A time where one day you’re excitedly dancing around the house to Florence and the Machine feeling victorious and brave about your future and the next you’re staring out the window quietly wondering if you’re making the right decision—each day that passes all of a sudden holds a certain significance and weight that they hadn’t before. The days keep passing and I struggle to wait.
When the restlessness rolls in I hop in my car, pulling a shiny CD out of the bird’s nest of hair on the floor and start to drive. I cross over puddles and fir tree branches and the waiting takes motion.