A Lifeboat Adrift on Dry Land

At six years old, and with a tomboyish spirit, I felt a profound connection to the outdoors. I resisted anything that contradicted my core values. I often imagined myself as “Sheena, Queen of the Jungle,” spending days climbing trees, feeling at one with nature as I listened to birdsong and observed the distant horizon.

As I sat reminiscing on the world I left behind I softly hummed to my favorite Rod Stewart’s ‘Rhythm of my Heart’ to self soothe, cementing the melancholy feeling that had been settling over me, due to the lingering echo of past adventures. I remembered those hikes down steep slopes in Great Bay, where I lost myself in nature’s embrace: the rugged rocks, hardy cacti, and endless expanse of sea. Blue skies, blue water, and my blue hiking gear—those were the days of carefree joy on the rocks on the bluff looking out at the panoramic view of the coastline. Now, I am lost in a sea of beige and Gray outfits, gray walls, skeletal trees, and gray skies wondering “What was I thinking!”

A wave of resentment washed over me, a bitter taste in my mouth. I’d allowed myself to be swallowed whole by the very system I once rebelled against. The promise of stability, the allure of a steady paycheck, had lured me into a gilded cage, where my spirit withered and my passion faded.

I stared at the skeletal trees outside the window, their bare branches reaching towards the gray sky like pleading arms. They were a reflection of my own state, stripped bare of life and vitality. A sudden, fierce determination sparked within me. I wouldn’t let this grayness consume me. I wouldn’t let my adventurous spirit be extinguished.

I vividly recall those days—I’d launch my kayak into the boisterous waves, the salt spray stinging my face, giving me an exhilarating sense of freedom. Then, I’d challenge myself with a grueling marathon climb to the peak of the nearest hill, pushing my body to its limits. Back then, I was financially poor, but rich in happiness, immersed in the activities I loved. Even with a demanding job, I’d carve out precious moments to escape to the beach after work. I’d relish the feeling of cool sand sifting between my toes as I walked miles along the pristine white shoreline. I can still picture it so clearly: the beach would be bursting at the seams with life, families laughing, children building sandcastles, everyone simply enjoying the moment. How did that vibrant, unburdened existence become my reality, and how can I recapture that feeling now?”

The sound of the fire truck shook me back to reality, another thing I could never get use to, the never ending sounds of fire trucks, ambulances, police cruisers – they’re like the city’s official soundtrack, and it’s a heavy metal album I didn’t buy.

Where did my personal zen garden go? Did it elope with a flock of migrating pigeons? I swear, just yesterday I was picturing myself back on my island, where the loudest thing was a coconut falling on a beach chair.

I feel like I’m adrift in a lifeboat without a paddle, an existential crisis crashing against me like relentless waves. My lifeboat, useless in this landlocked expanse, mocks my predicament.

The “landlocked expanse” wasn’t a literal ocean of earth, of course. The “lifeboat” was the fragile sense of self I clung to, the belief that I could navigate the storms of life. But here, surrounded by unopened bills and the ghostly echo of unfulfilled promises, the metaphor was painfully literal. “Useless,” I whispered, the word a bitter taste on my tongue.

I stood up, the floorboards groaning beneath my weight. The apartment was a mess, a physical manifestation of my mental chaos.

“Okay,” I said aloud, the sound of my own voice startling me. “Okay, we’re not paddling, we’re not floating. We’re… reassessing.”

As I cleaned, I began to see the apartment not as a prison, but as a canvas.

The books, scattered and neglected, were a treasured collection of forgotten knowledge and inspiration. I picked up a worn copy of “Man’s Search for Meaning,” its pages filled with Viktor Frankl’s wisdom. “When we are no longer able to change a situation, we are challenged to change ourselves,” I read aloud, the words resonating with a newfound clarity.

The lifeboat was still useless, but I was beginning to see that I wasn’t.

“To Adventure, Margaritas, and whatever comes next!” I yelled. And my metaphorical lifeboat, a tattered journal filled with dreams, was finally launching. I held on tight, ready to write the next chapter.”

The first crossroad appeared as a literal fork in the metaphorical sea – two currents pulling in vastly different directions. One, a shimmering, sun-drenched path, promised comfort and familiarity. It whispered of safe harbors, predictable tides, and the well-worn ruts of a life I’d known. The other, shrouded in mist and echoing with the cries of Emergency Service vehicle, hinted at uncharted territories, wild storms, and the potential for unimaginable discoveries.

My journal with impulsive bursts of poetry, wild sketches of fantastical landscapes, and the raw, unedited longings of my soul.

But the wilder path, the one obscured by mist, held a magnetic pull. It was the path of “whatever comes next,” a path that confront the crossroads within myself.

The next crossroad wasn’t a physical divergence, but an internal one. It was the choice between playing the role of the person I thought I should be, and embracing the person I truly wanted to be. The journal, a silent witness to my internal struggle, held the evidence. Pages filled with forced smiles and polite platitudes contrasted sharply with the raw vulnerability of my late-night scribbles. Did I want to be the cautious navigator, clinging to the familiar, or the intrepid explorer, willing to face the unknown?

The final crossroad presented itself as a question: would I allow fear to dictate my course, or would I trust the compass within? Would I allow the whispers of doubt to drown out the roar of my own heart? I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and finally, I understood. The “whatever comes next” wasn’t a destination; it was a process. It was about embracing the uncertainty, the beautiful, terrifying, exhilarating uncertainty of the journey itself.

I picked up my pen, the ink smudging slightly in the damp air, as I began to write. “The sea is rough, the fog is thick, and the crossroads are endless. But the compass within points true.