Get Out There if You Dare

I’ve got the itch and I’m not sure how to scratch it. It’s been bugging me for awhile. Last weekend I almost gave in to it but eventually I managed to cool it down. This weekend it’s flared up again. Part of me is trying really hard to ignore it, push it away, pretend it’s not there, but still it sneaks up on me, pulls me into its grasp, and sweeps me off my feet like the undertow on the ocean floor.

Unfortunately or fortunately, depending which way I look at it, being swept away by this wave doesn’t scare me. What it does, which is even more dangerous, is stir my gypsy blood and make that itch take on a life of its own. There is usually only one way to take care of this problem and that is to hit the road Jack! I don’t know of any other cure for that nasty itch called the travel bug.

I’m trying hard to justify the urge and find myself playing that all too familiar and bloody annoying, “shoulding” game. I should do this, I shouldn’t do that. If I could string all that wasted energy together it would likely be sufficient to fuel my car or a jet plane far enough to settle the old itch in the first place.

Why is it that what speaks to my heart the most is often the very thing I resist or hold back from giving myself? Is it part of a sacrificial role I fall into that whispers sweet nothings in my ear. Sweet nothings that insinuates that there’s a part of me which is being strong and virtuous by not giving in to what might be considered a silly whim that I can’t really afford.

Then there’s the other part of me, the fun loving, spontaneous, exploring, venture seeking, carefree part of me who is quick to pipe up with, “Ah, come on. Cut me some slack. Drop the long analytical sob story of why or why not and just go already.” And that’s the voice I tend to want to listen to - the one that says, “What’s up with that “shoulding” game and those limiting thoughts of lack and sacrifice? Walk your talk woman. Scratch the itch and get out there if you dare.”