I Love Freedom, Fish & Living Life in Hyperbole
A purple sky falls over the Desert Botanical Garden grounds in Phoenix, Arizona on a warm, December day.
How do you like to travel? Fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants style? Meticulously mapped? In a group? On your own?
Sometimes you learn how you don't like to travel en route to finding the way you love to.
Sometimes those parts of a trip that had you biting your nails, biting your kids, wishing you were back home on your big, comfy couch…sometimes those moments end up making the best stories later on. Like that time I got stuck in the mud, and I was sick to my stomach wondering if I'd ever make it out. Or that time I was only two days into a road trip when I busted up the rental car so badly I had to trade it in for a new one, but not before driving another hundred miles with its back door half-open, and I kind of just wanted to hide under my hotel bed for days. Those are some of my favorite memories to look back on.
But as genuinely drastic as those particular experiences may have been, I just might be THE most dramatic person I know. I experience everything to the 18th degree. So when I tell you I was scared that I was stuck in the mud, I’m telling you that in between flooring the gas pedal and yanking the steering wheel to and fro, my heart was actually beating so fast and hard that I could see and hear it practically pounding out of my chest. I'm rarely ever warm – I'm more likely uncomfortably hot and contemplating cooling down by any means necessary. And when I'm thirsty, my mouth feels like a desert cave that hasn't held water since the dinos roamed. I'm not on a lavender kick – lavender is just the only scent I'm choosing to surround myself with at this point in time. I don't just enjoy sushi – I have a constant unquenchable thirst for raw fish. And I definitely don't have a tapeworm – I just crave maki, sashimi, caviar, and roe the way those bits of fish once craved water.
So, it probably goes without saying that when I start daydreaming about this one, cute, little, random town in Idaho, I'm eventually going to decide that it's 100% mandatory to plan an entire trip around it. When the workday is done, I enjoy nothing more than opening a zillion tabs on my MacBook and scouting out everything I could possibly want to know about my desired destination. Where will I eat lunch on the first day, and what might I eat while I'm there? What time will the sun rise and set in that town? Where's the best place to watch the sun rise or set? What's the population? Does the town have a motto? How close is it to the next place I just have to go?
But this story isn't about that little town in Idaho; I'll save that for another time. This story reminds me of my independent, tumbling nature. My need to roam free, go where I please, do what I feel like doing, when I feel like doing it. I've always been that way, and the older I get, the more I notice and appreciate it. Even laugh at it sometimes. My dad loves to remind me of the time when I was at "Gymboree," a play place where parents brought their toddlers for some good old fashioned fun. Us kids were having free time – my favorite time – until someone in charge blew a whistle and decided to interrupt free time with group time. And that's when I became hysterical. My parents tried encouraging me to run along and join in the fun with everyone, but I only became more and more hysterical in protest. You see, I've had this inherent need to go at my own pace since my earliest days. So while all the other three-year-olds flung themselves repeatedly under a polyester parachute for entertainment, I was off on my own adventure, frolicking freely around the jungle gym, taking advantage of having the place all to myself, and of course, once I was doing this, my crying stopped. It wasn't that I was an antisocial kid, although I do sometimes enjoy being an antisocial adult, I just marched to the beat of my own drum and didn't feel like parachuting.
And as much as I strongly prefer "my way," I still try other ways. I'm thinking of one particular day while on a trip through Arizona. I've been flying out there for years and driving all around the state, but I've done so few things in Phoenix, the city I always fly into. But once I discovered the gem that is the Desert Botanical Garden, it's become an absolute must-do anytime I'm in the area. The exotic collection of Sonoran flora and fauna that the Desert Botanical Garden holds has left me completely captured, enchanted, and continuously coming back for more. Art installations sprout out of the ground amid corrals of cacti, succulents, and dozens of desert flowers I couldn't even begin to name. A web of winding, well-marked pathways sprawls throughout the 140-acre garden, and with so many intriguing options pulling you in every direction, it's a challenge to choose just which route you'd like to embark on first.
On my very first day there, a beautiful, older woman greeted guests in the center, starting area. She had a kind, gentle spirit – an easy way about her and a mellow mood that washed over you when you were in her presence. She just seemed so pleasant to be around. "Would you like to take a guided tour?" she asked with a soft smile. I hesitated. Did I really want to commit to a tour? That means going at the group's pace, forgoing my—oh, why not? I'll probably learn so much that I wouldn't have otherwise. "Sure, I'll take a tour." I think if it hadn't been this particular guide, I may not have agreed, but her soul…I sensed she was a kindred spirit, so I went.
The plan was to check and see if anyone else wanted to take a tour with us and then head down our first trail. "We'll just give it a few minutes…see if anyone else bites," she thoughtfully assured me. I was already starting to feel like I'd voluntarily clipped my wings, but I guess that feeling started the minute I contemplated taking the tour. But I didn't let myself fret, yet, I just smiled and waited patiently, gazing up at the wind blowing leaves off of trees in a graceful, unhurried manner.
"Would you like to take a tour?" the kind woman asked a middle-aged couple. "Oh, a tour—well, hmm…honey, what do you—oh I guess we should have time for a tour. Let's! How long is the tour?" I could tell right away that our guide's easygoing aura would not likely rub off on the type-A couple we'd just met. "Oh, it can last for as little or as long as you like," she said, still smiling. "Shall we?" she asked leading us just a few steps forward, not quite on our chosen path yet, but she pointed out a particular plant and explained something I really wish I could remember, but that memory was quickly replaced by the dozens of questions our lovely guide was bombarded with by my fellow tourists. We stood by that one plant long enough for me to realize that there was another string of intriguing plants wrapping around a bend just ahead of us. They were just slightly out of reach, and I wanted so badly to get a closer look at them, crouch down and aim my camera at them, read the little signs that were planted in front of them, you know…whatever I felt like doing.
The wife rambled on about how the last time they were there, something, something, something’d something else and my eyes and mind began to wander again. I noticed that one of the husband's shoelaces appeared to be a different color than its counterpart – I created a short story in my mind about why that might be. I found a long-lost dollar bill at the bottom of my right pocket. I remembered I had one last piece of gum in my cross-body bag, so I helped myself to that. I suddenly felt the urge to check my phone. That's when I knew they'd officially lost me.
I felt shackled and chained to my tour group, and I hadn't even been on it for ten minutes. My guide was so lovely – I couldn't bear the thought of abandoning her tour only a few moments in. I'd be heartbroken if I sensed that she felt like she wasn't doing a good enough job. But the more this couple droned on about god-only-knows what, the more desperately I searched for the strength to uncuff myself from the holding place and fly freely. I'm so accustomed to going at my own pace on my solo trips that even the shortest amount of time on anyone else's watch felt like an eternity. I came to the realization that this was precious time on my very own tailor-made trip that I'd never get back. So I decided that I wasn't willing to waste it doing anything that I didn't truly want to do. I decided to speak my truth, as kindly as humanly possible, "I'm so sorry to interrupt and to bail, but I think I'm going to keep exploring on my own—I'm so sorry."
The talkative wife was the first to respond, "Oh, I'm sorry, are we taking up too much…oh dear, we've monopolized the tour… I'm so sorry." And yet our lovely lady guide just wore a sweet, knowing smile and seemed to understand perfectly without saying a word. No explanation required. Although true to my over-communicative, overly-apologetic form, I felt the need explain, "No, no, no you're fine, please keep enjoying your tour, I just realized I may not be cut out for group tours…I'm…too much of a free bird, and I'm just dying to…I'm so sorry, I hope you'll understand." It felt good to speak my truth. They all understood and encouraged me to go off and enjoy my exploration. It felt even better to break away and bounce from the butterfly garden to the Desert Discovery Loop Trail, and back and forth.
"If a man does not keep pace with his companions, perhaps it is because he hears a different drummer. Let him step to the music which he hears, however measured or far away." – Henry David Thoreau