Like half an hour…

Things are taking longer than expected.

Welcome to my journal! It echoes my thoughts and feelings as I journey through life. I hope you connect with what you read. If you enjoy this journal, please subscribe.

---

Once, when I was about eight, my dad led my mom and I into the bush on a ‘short walk’. We were staying in an old house on a farm in the middle of no-where. The house had thick walls and no electricity, and though the farmer lived a short drive away, it seemed like the three of us were the only people in the world. The little cabin sat atop a small hill on the edge of a valley, and from it we glimpsed rolling hills, covered in dense bush. In that part of South Africa, the native trees are small and sparse. Most of the vegetation is dry, waxy shrubbery. I remember that I was the tallest eight-year-old in my class, but the bushes that grew in those hills towered over me. They covered the land, I could barely see the soil, and their leaves decorated the hills in a hundred shades of dusty greens and browns.

I have to interject here to give you some context. My parents are quite outdoorsy. When they started dating they were in a hiking club and a mountain biking club. When they camp, they only take what they need, no more. No fold-out kitchen counters or pop-up dustbins. My dad insists on using a paraffin stove, because it can be used at higher altitudes and lower temperatures than your run-of-the-mill gas-burner. When we camp, it’s usually somewhere out in the sticks, as far away from celllphone signal as my parents can get. All this to say, my parents are (and I am, to a lesser degree) comfortable in the wilder, more remote parts of the world. My dad, however, is the wildest of the three of us. My mom enjoys the fresh air in the mountains, she loves going for a walk along the beach, and don’t kid yourself, she’s game for a hike. Being in the wilderness is a welcome break away from the hustle and bustle for my mom. Driving into the mountains is returning my dad to the place that he belongs. It’s like the rocks and trees sing to him. I can feel a change in him, every molecule in his body is at a higher energy level—he is pulled into the landscape. At one campsite that my parents have visited annually for three decades, he is known to walk great distances barefoot, regardless of terrain.

It’s also important to know that I have a history of whining about walks. When I was really small, four or five, I would only join my parents on a walk if I could be in front. After that, I would only agree to hike with minimal moaning if I was motivated with the promise of chocolate at the apex. At eight, I would always join my parents when they asked me to walk with them, but only after a lot of complaining and bargaining. I wasn’t as keen on sand and bugs and mountains as they were, I much preferred sitting down and playing a game or reading.

It’s clear, then, that my dad’s concept of a ‘short walk’ was (still is) very different to mine. At eight, I hardly wanted to be on a walk in the bush in the first place. Any walk would be too long for my liking. A short walk, then, is from my chair to the car and back. Our walk was longer than that, I’m afraid. When we reached the point at which a reasonable adult might begin to call it a short walk, I had already voiced many negative opinions. I am certain that I continually asked when we could finally turn back. We kept walking. We hit the ‘medium walk’ milestone. We kept walking. Soon, the sun began to set and the temperature dropped. Slowly, my mom began supporting my complaints and insisted that it really was time that my dad led us back home. Whether he was totally lost, or simply lost in the joy of a long walk, still isn’t clear. What was supposed to take us thirty minutes lasted almost three hours, and had us jumping over rocks, sneaking through irrigation systems, and scratching up our legs on rough foliage.

My life felt a bit like that walk this week. I feel like the really straight-forward things in my schedule have unravelled themselves, and the winding path keeps on winding. After lots of work, I’ve finished my German course, and the next step is to pass an exam. After writing a sample test, it’s clear that I’ll need to spend many more hours studying that I previously imagined. My au-pair contract ends in October, and though I’ve known that since I moved to Berlin, October seems to be racing towards me now, so I’ve been brushing up on my professional skills and perusing some job applications. It seems that I’ve underestimated the amount of work I have there, too. It’s beginning to look like I’ll need a whole new portfolio. And maybe a certificate or two. All of a sudden my half an hour has stretched into three, I’m tired, grumpy, and the sun is beginning to set. I’m not nearly as close to home as I thought I was.

---

I tried to remember what made my parents leave their hiking and cycling clubs, but then I recall the tantrums I threw when I was brought along on either of those activities and the answer quickly dawned on me…If you enjoyed this journal, please share it with some you love.