Jumping Off

I find, in most cases, that falling is easy, landing is painful and jumping off in the first place is the hardest part of the entire process. This pretty much applies to anything I've ventured an attempt at.

Here it is, the sitch as the kids are calling it these days. I was born on a farm in the wheat belt of Western Australia, my family moved to small town south coast when I was yet a baby. My upbringing was a fairytale... the sort with dragons and adventurers and magical trees. I was home-schooled for most of it, and my two older brothers were my fellow crusaders on our great childhood adventure (stories for another time). At the age of thirteen my parents packed up my brothers, myself and a big caravan and our new hulk of a toyota troop carrier for a new adventure. One year, all of Australia... my world changed, now I wanted to see everything, to hear it and taste it, all of it the whole world.

 Arriving home I was fourteen, tall, red-headed (still), and desperate for more of whatever I could get. Life was normal, but for the fact that I went to a small private school, which I battled with my parents for the right to leave and go to a public school. I did, then was TEE (last two years for getting into uni), and then school ended and I knew, now the world would be mine. Eight months working followed by seven months abroad which morphed into two years.

Now I am home, here in small town south coast, with twenty-three years of experience in jumping off and it still terrifies me. In fact I am more scared of that first step than I ever was before. I've been home for three years and I know that if I don't jump soon, I never will and that terrifies me even more.

So the decision is made, the preparations are under way. I am leaving home... again. The move is months away and the waiting is excruciating.

Passing time and still falling...