The flight from Los Angeles to Auckland was extremely turbulent, and sleep was elusive. I was convinced I was going to arrive at my first stop tired, cranky and crusty-eyed. The thoughts running through my head didn’t help. I tried to identify the feelings that were coming up for me, but nothing clicked. People had been asking whether I felt anxious about leaving for weeks before I got on the plane, and my answer had always been the same – I felt excited, not anxious. But was that true?
After some time, I was surprised to recognize that I wasn’t being honest with myself. In truth, I was was homesick. I hadn’t felt homesick since I left to spend a summer in Israel in 1977. I was to split my time between Tel Aviv and Jerusalem in a study program involving high school juniors and seniors. I was a sophomore but had been able to get into the program because my parents had some connection to one of the group leaders. Until then, I had never spent time away from home – not even sleep-away camp. I had never traveled on my own.
Undoubtedly, throughout my gap year, my relationship with my parents – in particular my father – is bound to come up. I just didn’t expect it to come up so soon. To describe my relationship with my father as “complicated” doesn’t even begin to scratch the surface of my experience of childhood. For the longest time, I thought my father was omniscient and omnipotent. At the start of every year, he would sit my brother, sister and me down and tell us exactly what kind of year we could expect – what challenges we would face and whether we would be capable of meeting those challenges. There was comfort in knowing that the universe would bend to my father’s will and that my future was under control.
Imagine then when, for the first time in my life, I landed in Jerusalem and was traveling without my parents. I didn’t have my father to tell me how to act, what to do or whom to be. I was the youngest student in the group and regularly went to bed feeling alone and adrift; in retrospect, however, I don’t think “homesick” captured what I was feeling. There was nothing about my home life that I missed in particular. In truth, I missed that sense of security that went with surrendering to what I believed was a higher power – my father.
So there I was, close to 50 years later, sitting on the plane to Auckland, trying to figure out why I felt homesick. Was I going to miss my kids? Of course. Was I going to miss my friends? Undoubtedly. But those were consequences that I had considered when I was planning my trip. What did homesick mean to me as a man in my 60’s?
Then it hit me – I had created a sense of omnipotence in my little slice of the world. I’ve been living on my own for about 2 years. The trip itself demonstrated that I had become the only person in control of my life. I was not going to be answerable to anyone for at least a year. After years of considering (and usually acting upon) the needs and wants of others, since my retirement I had felt truly free. I had created a cocoon for myself that was reassuring and comfortable. How could I possibly maintain that during a year of exploration and uncertainty?
While in Auckland, I visited the Maritime Museum.* It was unexpectedly impactful. The idea of men, women and children setting out on a sea voyage of unknown duration, heading towards an unknown destination, was awe-inspiring. The boats they sailed were rudimentary, yet they managed to traverse the immensity of the open ocean in furtherance of the pursuit of what they believed would be a better life. Could I have done that? My instinctive reaction was “not a chance.”
But travel isn’t just about overcoming the setbacks and challenges that present themselves. As the plane rumbled beneath me, I realized that I didn’t feel nervous about the trip per se. I felt nervous about my “becoming.” I wasn’t homesick for my couch or sleeping in my own bed. I was homesick for the warmth of my cozy cocoon. In the “real” world, I would have to deal with my own stormy seas and complicated memories. In trying to adjust to this new reality, it never occurred to me to consider the flip side. Like what I thought those sailors in the hand-hewed boats must have felt, what if I was becoming someone who could meet new challenges without fear and with the confidence of self-knowledge? What if I didn’t feel lost in the real world and in need of someone else’s guidance? What if I couldn’t know what I was going to become, but was willing to leave myself open and vulnerable to the new and the different?
Ultimately, the sense of panic ebbed. I was certain that I could make myself comfortable with the uncomfortable. I could commit to relinquishing the illusion of control and opening myself up to what lay ahead. I accepted what I had been telling myself for some time: either I was going to have a great experience or I would wind up with a great story. I can live with either alternative.
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