Yesterday Tessa filled her backpack with all of the necessary items for a month on another continent: hostel sheets, a travel clothesline and laundry sheets, flipflops to wear in (possibly disgusting) hostel showers, warm coat and raincoat. She's got a book and a journal, snacks and a water bottle. She's got her small daypack, chargers, a waist belt to store her passport.
She's ready! She's so excited, but she's nervous too. She's never done anything like this before, and she doesn't quite know what to expect. Will she get lost? Will somebody steal her phone? Will she be lonely? Is she prepared?
The answer to all of the above is "maybe." She won't know until she goes. I am certain that she will have deep joy and that there will be days filled with "wow" moments; I am certain that there will be days with blisters and missed connections, or whatever their equivalents are. I think she'll meet people in the hostels (is anyone else traveling in the off season? will the hostels be empty?) and make new friends; I think she'll have time alone and that sometimes she might be a little lonely. She went through a breakup a month ago, and in those lonely times will she miss him? Or will she kiss a stranger on a dancefloor, her eyes sparkling as she spins away?
What I remember most about my own backpacking adventure is the deep joy of understanding myself at a whole new level, my confidence levels rising to new heights as I learned that my place in the world was much bigger than I'd imagined. Some of that was because of the struggle, not just in spite of it. I pushed my own boundaries to go on the trip in the first place, back when to be a woman traveling alone wasn't nearly as common as it is now. I remember utter exhaustion: according to my travel journal, in 30 days I slept on seven overnight trains (never actually sleeping, mostly just sitting in an uncomfortable train seat and jolting along the tracks). I remember getting lost, meeting a couple unsavory types, getting a sinus infection and trying to figure out what would make me feel better in a country that didn't sell ibuprofen (and my shock that it wasn't common there, and new ways of thinking about the safety of some things that the FDA approved). I slept with one eye open in the youth hostels, never fully settling in because I was sleeping in a room full of strangers. I had the tiniest of budgets, so figuring out how not to run out of money was a regular issue.
And all of that is part of what made it so great, and so transformative. Without the struggle, it was just another vacation; with the struggle, it was a life altering experience. I wouldn't be me if I hadn't done that, as it shaped my worldview and my view of myself. My capacity is much larger than I had dreamed before then, and overcoming each small obstacle was a gift to myself that taught me that my limits were past where I thought they were.
These gifts came in handy when life kicked me in the teeth and left me spitting blood, pain, rage. When cancer hit, I knew a bit more about how to stand up and keep going. When divorce hit, I knew how to be creative in creating a new version of myself. In single motherhood, I knew how to create joy on a shoestring. I knew how to build community, find adventure, feed myself, manage a few bumps and bruises.
And I knew that it was worth it.
I feel such delight that Tessa gests to figure out her own transformation on her own trip, done in her own way. I don't know what this trip will teach her about herself: I suspect that my learning wasn't actually that unique, and might have a universal application, but Tessa and I are different despite our similarities, and she will have her own joys, struggles, understandings, transformations. I suspect that when she comes home, I won't know parts of her anymore, and I look forward to getting to know those parts.
I don't know why the struggle is so important for our growth - wouldn't it be lovely if it was all friendship, sunshine, and unicorns? - but I'm sure that it is. I'm sure that both my daughter and I have capacity to overcome struggle, and possibly to laugh through it.
(Flashback: on my trip, a new friend and I took a train ride an hour away for the day, and then late at night we came back. The train stopped five miles from our stop and said, "everybody off, there's construction on the tracks!" and we were stranded late at night. I had my backpack on, heavy and cumbersome, and I hadn't slept in 36 hours. We walked - and RAN! - all the way back. I remember saying "running will get us there faster" and since my friend had a bike, I ran part of the way, my legs and lungs burning but filled with determination. When we got there, I recall laughing deliriously at the absurdity of it, exhausted by feeling proud.)
We do not need lives free of struggle, appealing though it may be. We need to know that when the train stops, we can manage anyway. We need to know that being lonely is a time for self reflection, not giving up. We need to know that we can tough out the sinus infection, take the detour, and find our way.
And how lucky to find one's way on trains and planes, going to concerts in Paris and London, shopping vintage markets and eating take-out in a park. How joyful!
Tessa will have struggles, but she's well prepared. I've showed her that the struggles are part of the story, not the whole story.
Single motherhood is not for sissies. Her dad is still in her life and he loves her and has provided child support, and I do not take that for granted, but when there is a decision to be made I am the one to make it. I've been the enforcer of bedtime and screentime (those days are past, of course) and I've managed medical appointments. I've helped with college apps, and job apps, and plane reservations. I've made a million meals, and I've driven carpool more than I can count. I've given her a safe and comfortable place to live, a fridge full of food, a place to invite her friends (and all the snacks required). I've learned to love thrifting as a way of bonding with her (plus I've found my own steals!). I've been the one to discipline, and the one to help her with heartbreak. I take her on vacation, and I hang the birthday banner and wrap her gifts and make sure that there is cake when the occasion requires it. It has been joyful, painful, wearying, and every moment of it has shaped me. We've navigated cancer and divorce and what came afterwards together.
She's ready. She'll master trains and buses and light rail and planes and such in no time. She'll visit places that I've been to, and she'll go to places I've never been. It will be harder than she guesses, but it will be better than she guesses.
She's ready. I'm ready. The whole lifetime we've been waiting for this. What joy, it's here!
I can't help but think of the Naomi Shihab Nye poem that I love so well: it is only because I have lost things that I know the true joy of kindness. The struggle got me here, so I'm thanking the struggle, too.
Kindness
Before you know what kindness really is
you must lose things,
feel the future dissolve in a moment
like salt in a weakened broth.
What you held in your hand,
what you counted and carefully saved,
all this must go so you know
how desolate the landscape can be
between the regions of kindness.
How you ride and ride
thinking the bus will never stop,
the passengers eating maize and chicken
will stare out the window forever.
Before you learn the tender gravity of kindness
you must travel where the Indian in a white poncho
lies dead by the side of the road.
You must see how this could be you,
how he too was someone
who journeyed through the night with plans
and the simple breath that kept him alive.
Before you know kindness as the deepest thing inside,
you must know sorrow as the other deepest thing.
You must wake up with sorrow.
You must speak to it till your voice
catches the thread of all sorrows
and you see the size of the cloth.
Then it is only kindness that makes sense anymore,
only kindness that ties your shoes
and sends you out into the day to gaze at bread,
only kindness that raises its head
from the crowd of the world to say
It is I you have been looking for,
and then goes with you everywhere
like a shadow or a friend.
From Words Under the Words: Selected Poems. Copyright © 1995 by Naomi Shihab Nye. Reprinted with the permission of the author. https://poets.org/poem/kindness
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