Here I Am, and There You Are.

NZ. Two letters. It’s been 5 months. Maybe six? God damn, I can’t even look at those letters without being moved. They’re special to me. NZ.

I meant for this to be a postmortem. To be honest, I don’t even know what that means, other than the literal “after death”.  But really, maybe that’s fitting. A large part of me has died, that never will be again. When I moved overseas I left my life behind: who knew me, who I was, what I did, what I was. It was gone.  I was a blank slate. A fresh sheet. Who could I be? What could I leave behind? Who would I show to the world?

I had always wondered what I would make of it if I was given the chance to write my book fresh.  I made grandiose plans of me proving myself to be an athlete, or an adventurer, or even a professional. I failed on all those accounts.  I don’t know if I made the best of my blank pages, but I sure as hell wrote some good stories.

The ironic part is that I was in a country with the most amazing scenery, and not a huge population comparatively, but if I were to write you six chapters on the best experiences I had while I was in New Zealand I would write you six chapters about people. 

Vi. Mark. Wayne. Laura. Lena. Rory.

Even typing your names seems foreign.  But… Why? Where did you go?... Or… Where did I go?

If you can’t tell by this far in, I’m a little lost myself, and certainly wondering where I should call “home”.  New Zealand feels so right. Forget the multitudes of sports we focus on, the economy we wretch over, the immense nation we gripe about. New Zealand was a true culture of one.  I felt like I was part of a community there, not a “West vs East vs Prairie” political split, nor an “America vs Canada” battle.  We’re full into an American election season and I feel so involved.  Why? A Canadian shouldn’t feel so involved… yet I am. Because, as a Canadian, it matters. It will affect me just as much as my own National election will.  The kicker is: I don’t want to care.  I enjoyed the days when my biggest political gripe was weather the Prime Minister was at the rugby game, or what flag we were going to raise next year. 

I don’t want to call New Zealand “simple” in the sense that they aren’t a complex, observant, intelligent nation, because they certainly are, but I want to call it “simple” in the fact that they care about what matters, and ONLY what matters, and thin out their agenda to include only the issues that they truly care for.

As I near 30- which does not scare me, don’t get me wrong- but as I approach 30 I see so many paths which I can take, slithering off in different directions into the abyss. Where do they go? Which is the right one? How can I fuck this up? New Zealand had less snakes, less trails, less disaster.  Does that make me “less adventurous”? Perhaps.  Or perhaps I found the right group of paths that would lead me to where I want to be.  And of that, I am terrified, for I put more distance between me and those paths that one should ever put between themselves and happiness. Perhaps happiness is, literally, on the other side of the earth, and here I am, trying to find it.