I Miss My Old Life
I Miss My Old Life By A.G. Raines
Sitting in a hotel room in New York City thinking about my life, and the decisions I have made that have landed me where I am now. I am not camping, living out of my car and kayaking every day. I am not exploring the human threshold of body, mind, and spirit. I am not surrounded by the people who I consider essential to my happiness and who I trust with my life. I am not tending bar, waiting tables, or dissecting job boards for prospective cash flow. I am not living in the moment and I am not carefree. I have entered the corporate white collared world of business meetings, conference calls, expense reports, deadlines, and data analysis.
Like a movie real on loop, playing over and over, I sit in my kayak in an undisturbed eddy, facing up stream. Eyes closed, I’ve memorized the rapid, each move, each hazard, the exact line I need to have. The distant roar of foreboding turbulence echoes from downstream. My heart beats fast. I breathe in through my nose, out through my mouth. My prayers consist not of safe passage, but of gratitude for the experiences I’ve been fortunate enough to have on planet earth: The good, the bad, even the grotesque. What seems like four or five lifetimes of nomadic enterprise, I appreciate every last quest and the incredible souls I’ve met along the way. Kayaking is not a hobby for me but a way I choose to live my life. Kayaking is not conniving or scandalous and it commands respect. Kayaking is always there when you need a release from one reality to the next. Kayaking is challenging, loyal, sexy, charismatic, electric, and often times uncertain. Kayaking encompasses all possibilities of human existence and fortitude. Kayaking is a doorway to an unimaginable life. A life only lived and experienced through the eyes and heart of a beholder courageous enough to commit thyself to the forces and precariousness of the natural world. I respect kayaking more than I respect myself. I miss my old life.
Sitting in a hotel room in New York City thinking about my life, and the decisions I have made that have landed me where I am now. I am not camping, living out of my car and kayaking every day. I am not exploring the human threshold of body, mind, and spirit. I am not surrounded by the people who I consider essential to my happiness and who I trust with my life. I am not tending bar, waiting tables, or dissecting job boards for prospective cash flow. I am not living in the moment and I am not carefree. I have entered the corporate white collared world of business meetings, conference calls, expense reports, deadlines, and data analysis.
Like a movie real on loop, playing over and over, I sit in my kayak in an undisturbed eddy, facing up stream. Eyes closed, I’ve memorized the rapid, each move, each hazard, the exact line I need to have. The distant roar of foreboding turbulence echoes from downstream. My heart beats fast. I breathe in through my nose, out through my mouth. My prayers consist not of safe passage, but of gratitude for the experiences I’ve been fortunate enough to have on planet earth: The good, the bad, even the grotesque. What seems like four or five lifetimes of nomadic enterprise, I appreciate every last quest and the incredible souls I’ve met along the way. Kayaking is not a hobby for me but a way I choose to live my life. Kayaking is not conniving or scandalous and it commands respect. Kayaking is always there when you need a release from one reality to the next. Kayaking is challenging, loyal, sexy, charismatic, electric, and often times uncertain. Kayaking encompasses all possibilities of human existence and fortitude. Kayaking is a doorway to an unimaginable life. A life only lived and experienced through the eyes and heart of a beholder courageous enough to commit thyself to the forces and precariousness of the natural world. I respect kayaking more than I respect myself. I miss my old life.
