The Unlived Life

Most of us have an unlived life, maybe several: the path not followed, the risk not taken, the love who got away.

Bell Rock and Cathedral Butte, Sedona, Arizona

It’s been said that if you go to red rock country in Arizona three times, you’ll end up moving there. And indeed, as my husband and I hiked mountains and mesas that seemed to emit (rather than simply be) various shades of copper, we started imagining ourselves in the Sedona area for the rest of our lives. The air in northern Arizona sits lightly on the skin; it isn’t weighed down by humidity. Without trees, the vistas are endless. From Mescal Mountain, you can see Cathedral Rock miles away. 

We met a couple on the trail who moved to Sedona from Indianapolis two years earlier. The guy said he’d lost thirty pounds just by hiking. My husband and I looked at each other. We too could hike our way back to our former svelte selves!

“New places and people change us in ways we can’t anticipate.”

He would finally take up carpentry (though there’s a glaring lack of wood in Arizona). I’d release myself from the grueling search for a publisher. I’d learn to read Tarot cards, and my spot-on readings would help people get clarity about their lives. My business would boom! As my husband and I wound around the precipitous side of Mescal Mountain, I mentally decorated my office: it would be a Zenlike space without the typical beaded curtains, scented candles, and paisley bedspreads adorning the walls. I would never drape myself in bracelets and scarves. Instead, I would—
 
The popular HGTV show “House Hunters” popped into my mind. Whenever people tour houses that appeal to them, they always say, “I can see myself here.” They’re trying on different houses for size; in Sedona, my husband and I were trying on a different geography for size, a geography we fantasized would mold us into our ideal selves.
 
I do this every time I travel. When I joined the Peace Corps and left for Africa, I imagined I would become a health-care super-hero . (I didn't.) At various times in my life, I’ve imagined myself as a scholar in an ivory tower in Boston, as a devoted yogi at an ashram in Pennsylvania, as a successful woman of letters living in a cozy flat in London. In each scenario, I appear as a better version of myself. 
 
Two truths hold: 1) Wherever we go, there we are, and 2) where we go changes us. 
 
Geography, climate, culture, and relationships matter. If I hadn’t lived in Africa, what would my life look like now? Would I be a wife? A mother? Photographer? Writer? The equation is muddy. New places and people change us in ways we can’t anticipate. They bring forth different aspects of the self, but they can’t bring forth something that isn’t already there. Dormant perhaps, but there.

Within hours of arriving home, my husband and I knew we wouldn't be moving to Arizona, as compelling as it was. We’ve already moved several times, so we realize we’re no more likely to make drastic changes in our habits in Arizona than we are in Tennessee. And here, we have a beautiful if not perfect geography, enough culture to feed us, and friends we love and who love us. But the next time we travel, we’ll once again imagine living an alternate life far from home.
 
If you could move anywhere, where would it be? What aspects of yourself would that place bring out? What keeps you where you are? 

Hiking with friends at Big Soddy Creek outside of Chattanooga, Tennessee

Instead of grounding yourself for life, book a window-seat.

The first time I realized that my plane—just possibly—could crash, I was twelve years old. My parents and my sister and I were flying to Buenos Aires, Argentina, where we would be living for the next six months. The Andes were 20,000 feet below, their arid heights dotted with lakes an impossible shade of green. As I marveled at the vivid color, it dawned on me that the safety of my parents’ protection had nothing to do with the safety of the aircraft. If the plane went down, my family would be wiped out.

We arrived in Buenos Aires in March 1966, my sister and I in white go-go boots.

I was an optimistic girl, so my realization floated away before it had a chance to harden into fear. Then, for reasons I still can’t fathom, I became afraid of flying when I hit my late forties. Strapped into my seat, I would pray that TSA had kept a sharp eye out, that the pilot wasn’t having suicidal thoughts, that the plane was shipshape even though it rattled like it was about to fly apart at the seams.

“I’d experienced the life-changing power of traveling and living overseas, and I wanted to do more of it. ”

This newfound dread distressed me. I’d experienced the life-changing power of traveling and living overseas, and I wanted to do more of it. I had to find a way to stop torturing myself with catastrophic fantasies. Several months later, I heard someone say that people become what they pay attention to. What I was paying attention to was my fear, not to all the places I wanted to see. I changed my focus, and my anxiety gradually melted away.

Since the recent crashes of two Boeing 737 Max 8 jets, I’ve been thinking about people who are curious about the world but are so afraid of flying, they won’t get on a plane. The Max 8 disasters, I imagine, have only reinforced their decision. Boeing’s squirrelly corporate behavior has done little to inspire confidence. The F.A.A.’s reluctance to ground the planes hasn’t helped, either.

Even so, the trend toward increasing automation (such as in the Max 8) has reduced the number of crashes over the past decade. Everybody knows it’s safer to travel by plane than car, but once anxiety grabs hold, the mind doesn’t care about statistics—it cares about maintaining the illusion of safety. Cars are routine, and routines are safe. Therefore, cars are safe.

When I get in my Subaru, I perceive myself as an irreplaceable human being in control of my destiny. Countless times I’ve swerved out of harm’s way before I was aware of a car veering into my lane. In traffic there are so many variables, I know I could become a grease spot on the asphalt in an instant, but to function behind the wheel, I have to stash that unpleasant thought away. In the air, I’m not behind the wheel, so my imagination will gladly take over if I let it, filling my head with visions of disaster when the air gets rough or lighting flashes across the sky.

Some people feel so overwhelmed by their dire fantasies, they never fly again, which is sad, at least for those who would otherwise love to see the world. If you’re like that, maybe all you have to do is change your focus. Dream about the places you’ve always wanted to see, no matter how far away they are. Galapagos? Dublin? Botswana? Rome? Instead of grounding yourself for life, book a window-seat and enjoy the ride. Feel the thrill as the aircraft gathers speed, as the wheels leave the earth, as this amazing human invention takes to the sky and bears you across the turbulent ocean in a matter of hours instead of weeks. Then look out the window as if you’re twelve years old again. Look at the towering cumulus clouds, at the patchwork fields six miles below, at the toy cars and red-roofed dollhouses, at the mountain tops dotted with lakes an impossible shade of green.

Fly!

After all, the world beckons.

Listening to London

During a recent trip to London, I was surprised by all the languages I heard on the street: a lot of European ones, especially Polish and French, but also quite a bit of Hindi, Farsi, Turkish, Korean, Arabic, Hausa, and other tongues I couldn’t identify. London was an international city back in the 1970s, but not this international. I could now catch as many snippets of conversation that weren’t in English as those that were. All this strangeness has freaked the British out—all of them, that is, except the Londoners themselves. 

Curious about the change, I looked up the demographics when I got home. (Read on for some riveting statistics!) A report put out by Oxford last October says that the foreign-born population in the U.K. doubled between 2004 and 2017. Over half of these immigrants are concentrated in London, the rest scattered across England, Ireland, Scotland, and Wales. Ironically, this means that the Brits who fear immigrants the most—and voted to leave the European Union—live where there aren’t many immigrants.  

London is worried. As I eavesdropped on people in restaurants and theaters, I kept hearing the word “Brexit.” It’s already sending the economy down the tubes, people said. David Cameron should have never called for a referendum. Parliament doesn’t know what it’s doing. This Brexit thing is going to drag on forever. 

There are a lot of people in the U.K. and the U.S.—as well as in Eastern Europe—who are hell-bent on cutting ties, throwing up walls, and shielding their cultures from foreign contamination. As I picked up on the anxiety in London last week, the trend I’ve been reading about got a lot more real: the reaction against globalism is global. It’s happening all over, not just in the States. 

But the reaction here is pernicious. Americans are being detained for leaving food and water along routes traveled by illegal immigrants fleeing gang violence. A woman in West Texas—a lawyer, no less—is facing possible federal charges for trying to help three young people who, having run out of food and water days earlier, desperately flagged her down. 

It seems impossible that America has come to this. But like other liberal democracies,  come we have. Enough people voted for Trump. Enough people voted for Brexit. The forces of tolerance and intolerance have assembled their pieces on the board. The question is what happens next. What kind of world do we want to shape? What kind of world will we have shaped—whether by apathy or action—twenty years from now? 



The world beckons, but the laptop is cozy.

I’ve been thinking a lot about the risks I’ve taken and how I’ve learned from them. My biggest adventure happened when I ran away from home to live in Africa, an experience that changed my life in ways I could have never foreseen. I’ve written a memoir of this time, sometimes thinking I would never finish it. But I did, and I hope you’ll add your name to my email list so I can keep you posted as I look for a home (read: publisher) for The Geography of Desire.

By the time I was twenty-four, I was stuck in a dead-end job and my love life had dwindled to ashes, so after a decade of dreaming about it, I joined the Peace Corps. I was scared I wouldn’t be able to make it in an African village, but I was equally desperate to reinvent myself. What really prompted me to get on that plane, though, was the image of my future self: an old woman sitting in a rocker kicking herself for not even trying to do the thing her younger self had so passionately wanted to do.

A lot of us long for adventure, but it’s raining outside and the laptop feels cozy. Though the world beckons, we hesitate. Years pass. Some of us might be thinking about opening an Etsy shop, others about hiking the Appalachian Trail. Still others might simply want to get their own place on the other side of town.

Have you ever taken a risk that changed your life? Or are you hesitating? How did you get up the courage to take the first step? Or what will help you do this? I’d love to hear from you. You can reach me at linda@lindagambill.com or on Twitter, Instagram, and Facebook.

I was super-happy to get wheels. Loved that Honda 50! We had a lot of adventures in The Gambia.