I’ll begin with the house where the cycles first began.
I’m not sure what drove me to the forest — a sort of nervous excitement gripped me, hanging like damp cloth on the clothesline of my soul. I’d look into the thick greenness of the forest and feel it swaying, as though it were alive, breathing, waiting. One Friday evening, entranced and pulled by curiosity, I found myself — or rather, watched myself — stuffing a loaf of bread, nut butter, jam, and a gallon of water into a pack. Then, without much thought, I began walking toward the forest.
The house appeared before me like a gray monolith rising from the trees, abandoned and half-forgotten, perched on the edge of a cliff as if it were fleeing something. Its hard edges clashed with the soft curves of the rainforest, the towering thirty-foot walls of cold concrete enclosing three sides. The fourth side, open and incomplete, faced the ocean and the city of Cairns, Australia. From the roof, rebar spines jutted out like the frayed edges of a sombrero.
I had visited the house a few times before on student excursions, but this time, I came alone, intending to spend the weekend there. Scaling rebar along the outer wall, I climbed through a second-floor window and onto the flat roof.
That night, under a starry sky, I dreamt. I recalled what an Aboriginal elder had told me about The Dreaming, about wraiths and spirits that dwell in the forest. In the dream, I saw a hulking shadow gliding through the grove of ferns surrounding the house. It drifted toward the edge of the structure, cloaked in darkness, hooded, and then it entered the house. I woke with a start, heart pounding, frozen.
And yes, I nearly shit myself.
The fear lingered into the morning, spreading like a cold knot in my stomach. When I awoke, I was digesting a Rubik’s cube. At this point, I again nearly shit myself, scrambling down from the roof to the bushes below. Lacking toilet paper, I charged through the underbrush, frantically seeking leaves to salvage my dignity. Not the poisonous ones. Please, not the poisonous ones.
After one miserable night and an even worse day, I left the house and returned to the student lodge. To my surprise, when I arrived, I felt renewed, recharged, revived — but why? What had happened?
There was no magic in that house. No great revelation on a mountaintop where I felt one with the universe, yadda yadda yadda. It was just a whole lot of shitting and struggling to find neurotoxin-free foliage. But in the discomfort and solitude, I craved connection, and that craving grew until it outweighed my desire to stay. Somehow, through the solitude and the struggle, I rediscovered my love for others — a love I’ve carried with me ever since.
The second cycle began in a cobblestone library in rural Spain. Unlike the first which lasted a day, it stretched nearly six months. I returned from Spain with drive that propelled me through years of school and into a career I enjoy. The third cycle, I now see, began here in Alaska, and it has lasted two years. Where this one will take me? I’m not yet sure.
What drives us to seek out far-off places, often alone? A therapist might say I’m running from something — and they’d probably be right. Aren’t we all? But is that wrong? I can’t say for certain.
What I do know is this: If each adventure is a cycle, then across those cycles, I circle myself. Each new place I explore, each home I create, I become a fuller version of the same person. With every move, some habits and patterns fall away, left behind like discarded clothes, while the ones that align with my core remain, growing stronger. I left climbing gyms in San Diego. I left aimless wandering in Spain. But everywhere I go, I find myself in coffee shops writing, in courses or seminars, and at gatherings where I meet, love, and enjoy new people.
In my work now, I’m challenged to connect with and care for people vastly different from myself. And I see how every cycle has prepared me for this.
So yes, a therapist might say I’m running from something — and they’d be correct. But my heart says I’m running toward something — and I know that’s true. That something is me.
C.P.P
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