Homeward Bound

I'm in Dublin now, come back from the Cairngorm Scottland Highlands. The most mystical spot on this round earth, that I've seen anyway. Tomorrow I head to Shannon at dawn to catch my plane back to the states.
All things must come to an end. This past year has been the biggest and most fulfilling adventure of my life to date. I have learned about love and self, seen foreign lands, spoken strange languages, read the lines on thousands of faces, taken risks, made mistakes--so many wonderfully hard and beautiful mistakes--learned that mistakes aren't the end but junctions where we are allowed to choose how we go forward. I've walked along rivers and taken deep gulps from cold streams and burns (pronounced Byurns), run naked across Scottish mountainscapes with nothing but a pack on my back and mud under my feet, bog mud, and even there, in the muck, the blooming heather manages to penetrate and sweeten the air. I've discovered the bothy, made so many fruitful connections with other humans it will take time to process. I spent Christmas on a carfree and carefree Greek isle where the water was clearer than , went the way of the Berber through the largest desert in the world, drove along expansive beaches, tread over trillions of grains of sand, and spelunked through caves leading to what I can only describe as ecstasy. I have sat at a desk at 6 p.m., in a room that looks like a prison cell, trying to write, and been inspired by the nearby sound of 900 year-old cathedral bells clanging in the heavy evening air, bouncing down the ancient curving streets, across the Plaza Nueva, off the proud buildings and into my bedroom window. I have seen and heard and felt and smelled so many things. Wonderful things. Life-changing things. Awesome things. The people I have met, however, and the relationships forged, are what have made this trip most memorable.

The first thing that happened to me upon arriving in Scotland was a theft. They've stolen my camera. It was my fault. The one time I turned my back on that thing which I've protected with a paranoia probably diagnosable, an opportunist was there waiting, and when I returned, it was gone. Climbing the William Wallace monument in Aberdeen with Carson seemed a fantastic idea, and it was. We had all of our stuff--rucksacks, backpack, and my camera bag. When I left our gear at the bottom, a thought flashed through my head--probably not a good idea--but for whatever reason, this time I dismissed that shrill voice. There were people sitting on the bench, watching us, it was the middle of a beautiful, green and blue, sunny the day. We were standing 4 meters above our stuff. The view was beautiful. The swath of perfectly maintained green grass below, with people strewn about enjoying the warm weather; the spire of the 2nd largest granite building (that of Marshall College) in the world, dominating the skyline. Stunning. I'm not sure if it was as stunning as clambering down that large block of stone and bronze to find myself one bag short. I came down to take a picture of Carson's massive, cat-like frame managing Wallace. It wasn't to be.

We were going to the mountains. We made a detour to the police department to report the theft. I was at once frantic and strangely at ease. My camera had been stolen. My camera had been stolen. I said those words out loud and silently to myself. That was it. My camera had been stolen and I was going to the mountains. Alex has pointed out on a pair of occasions what she sees as my invincible, "it can't happen to me" attitude. It happened to me. Oh the irony of having protected it with my life the entire trip, only to have it taken at the very end. No tears have been shed, there is no anger--frustration with myself and some regret--though my heart clenches when I think of the dollars that bag contained, and my Spanish cell phone, with all of my friends' numbers. The truth is, it was liberating. I have never lived more in-the-moment, at any point in my life. Nor do I think I've created such strong and detailed mental images since I allowed myself to become obsessed with documenting every important experience in my life by standing behind that heavy black object. I wish my decision to give up photography for a while had been more voluntary, but I think that ultimately, this experience, more than some others, has taught me and led me, quite forcefully, to another junction. I think I will stick with writing for now and give myself a break from being the camera guy. It had become a bit of a burden, a mild obsession, and a source of constant frustration ("They're not GOOD enough!") Now there is nothing to do but live, and live I will. I'm so ready to come home. I thought it would be terrible, soul crushing. No so. Not so at all. I miss everyone very much and can't wait to see your faces and hear your voices again. Get ready, home, I'm coming.

-The luckiest guy in the world.