Shedding the Layers: The Only 1 Way To Travel
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What if the act of journeying is actually an act of shedding?
Although it is counterintuitive for my perfectionist, control-freak self, things find us when we least expect them to and when we need them the most to find us.
One of these things was a Steph Jagger newsletter that had been sitting in my email box for a while, waiting for me to click it in the right moment.
Imagine this, I am carrying a bigger-than-allowed-by-Ryanair-guidelines backpack, book in hand as always, headphones to block the chatter of other travellers, an ID to prove who I am, and dropping most of my belongings anyway.
As the line for boarding gets longer and my patience runs thinner, I read the following lines - not mindlessly scrolling anymore:
When I travel, I am focused on doing two things:
1. Letting the silks of my various selves slip from my shoulders; and
2. Laying myself bare in the world before asking,
“Who am I in this place?
In this body, in this time, in this space?”
Wow.
I mean, wow.
Here I am, barely able to wait to land in Crete (or hold everything I am carrying to help my ADHD until I get there), and Steph is giving me THIS.
With 23 people in front of me (yes, I counted), I think:
What if the act of journeying outward is precisely what brings us closed to our inward, out true selves?
What if the act of journeying to places where noone knows us brings us closer to who we are?
What if the act of journeying is actually an act of shedding?
The Shedding Ritual You Need
“I like to watch as all the garments I’ve been wearing fall away,
gathering in a soft pile on the ground.
I revel in the feeling of me in nothing but my own skin.”
-Steph’s pile of words-
From now on, when you travel,
even if it is to unexplored parts of your city -
take it as a shedding ritual.
Shed the roles you play - as a daugher, a son, a partner, a parent, a teacher, an IT specialist, a friend, a writer, whatever.
Shed the responsibilities you have.
Shed the routines you obey.
Shed until there is nothing more to shed.
Invariably, this becomes a place of paradox.
You* feel lighter and fuller.
You feel quicker and slower.
You feel fluid and more steady, nimble and stable at once.
Nobody knows exactly where you are, or who you are, or what you’re doing, or why you’re there.
And in all of that, you feel so stunningly visible, even though your identities – POOF - are not.
FEEL FELT: Stunningly visible in your authenticity
The surround sound of everything familiar fades into the background, absorbed by church bells and the cooing of pigeons.
The light grows dim and the reflection of the familiar gets harder and harder to see. I am nobody’s sister or wife.
I am nobody’s wise coach or dissident daughter.
I’m just me, feeling my way through the world.
Letting wind and water brush across me, letting the elements confirm my shape by the way they move all around me.
I feel felt by them.
What a fucking gift that is— to feel felt.
Shedding the roles and the responsibilities that these roles mean
allows to shed the familiar surrounding
that we have rooted ourselves and our identity into.
Now, a new physical environment takes central stage, as our core identity makes a re-appearance.
Think about it, when you go somewhere where you haven’t been, you look, observe, take it all in - the colours of the windows, the funky door frames, the graffiti, the life, the people, their dialogue, their language, their gestures, their food, their habits, the landscapes, the cityscapes, the soundscapes.
You look and see.
What happens inside of you is similar -
you look, observe, take it all in -
the emotional landscape, the turmoils that you put in boxes “deal with it later”,
the truths you couldn’t offer yourself until silence reached you,
the peace you didn’t extend your hand to reach,
the anxiety that you let speak into your ear,
the new opportunities you were afraid to say “yes” to and you really want to,
the present moment you couldn’t sit with.
You look and see.
I don’t travel, I shed.
And then I turn inward to do the same for myself.
I run my fingertips along the crystalline walls of my interiority,
noting how smooth everything is.
This newsletter has been brewing for a while.
I knew I will write it several weeks ago. I knew it has to brew for me to truly reflect its significance in my life first, and then offer it to you.
(It felt unauthentic doing it the other way around.)
The best part is that it is written without any perfectionist tendencies showing up, without any thought, without anything but creating bracelets of letters one by one by one.
(
would call it BIG MAGIC, and rightfully so as I am becoming a recovering perfectionist, no?)The worst part is that there is a paradox:
It feels complete: I took my lesson, I won’t be able to travel in the same way I travelled before Crete, before Steph, before shedding. I wrote to you about it.
It feels like it will never be complete: I will keep on taking lessons, I will travel again, I will shed again. You have this newsletter in your hand, you will start shedding, you will talk about it (hopefully).
I shed now, as we speak. (I feel like I am speaking to you.)
The coolest part is that, in the beginning of my journey and of this newsletter, I wrote that I was carrying an ID to prove who I am, yet ironically, the second time around - on my way back to Sofia, I actually thought of how insufficient that is.
Don’t get me wrong, I do get that an ID is practically just an ugly picture on which I look like a prisoner yet I need to, unfortunately, show to quite a lot of people.
But as I was looking at the “SOFIA BOARDING” sign, it felt frustratingly miniscule because I had shed so much, and I felt like it was all being put right back on.
The person who handed the ID on my way to Crete had drastically changed within one newsletter, 5 days of island bliss and 120 hours of shedding.
Here I was,
waiting to board
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This is the final boarding call for passenger Katrin Hristova booked on flight whatevernumber to Sofia, Bulgaria.
Please proceed to gate 7 immediately.
The final checks are being completed and the captain will order for the doors of the aircraft to close in approximately five minutes time.
I repeat. This is the final boarding call for Katrin Hristova.
Here I was.
One newsletter, 5 days of island bliss and 120 hours of shedding later.
This is the last time the passenger Katrin will need a reminder to shed her whatevernumber of roles and responsibilities.
Please proceed to find yourself but don’t rush, never rush.
The final thoughts are that these 7200 minutes outward are being completed and you have to power to make choices that open the doors you were taught to keep closed.
I repeat. This is the last time the passenger Katrin will need a reminder to shed her whatevernumber of roles and responsibilities.
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Bon freaking voyage,
The Passenger