Yesterday started early.  I’d been up late the night before seeing the sights.  I was told that breakfast (included with my room) was at 8:30.  Now, I’m not one to miss a meal, so I figured out which of my electronics had a functioning alarm clock, and set it for 8:00.  When I woke up, it was clear that my morning cappuccino had become a full on addiction.  I could hardly open my eyes.  So I hit the shower (I love showers), threw on some clothes and blundered downstairs.  I was the first one there.

Breakfast was cute and completely adequate.  One of the guys who runs the hotel (not Georgio) made me a cappuccino while I checked out breakfast.  I grabbed a roll and some yogurt and surveyed the cereal selection:  corn flakes, a bland looking oat and raisin mix, and a promising oat and chocolate mix.  One guess which one I tried.  The oats and puffed rice were ho hum, but the chocolate krispies and both light and dark chocolate pieces helped me wake up enough to consider the day before me.  Well, the cappuccino helped, too.

I enjoyed my quiet breakfast and headed back to the room, awake and ready to plan my day.  I looked at my maps, considered my guidebooks and decided on a route.  Head to Saint Mark’s and then to the Rialto for lunch in the market.  If all went well, I’d be able to catch a vaporetto at dusk for a self-guided tour of the Grand Canal, thanks to Rick Steves.  But first, I needed to put some money on my internet card so that I could continue checking email and posting about my trip.

“Ho una domanda.”  “Di mi.”  Georgio was at the front desk when I came down and ready to answer my question.  He wasn’t sure, but though one of the internet points around the corner could help me out.  “Grazie!  Ciao!”  I was off.

The internet point around the corner was less than helpful.  A snooty youngish man in a frilly cravat was the apparent shopkeeper.  Internet points are places where you can plunk down a couple Euro and use the computers.  This was a tiny, strange corner shop, with huge boxes of legos stacked high above the clutter of postcards, keychains and two or three computers jammed against one wall.  This shopkeeper is the first person who looked at me with thinly veiled disgust when I apologized, in Italian, for not speaking the language well and asked him, mostly in Italian, about my internet key.  All he said was “not here.”  I had to prompt him for more information.  “Go to Rialto, to the Vodafone center there.”  Okay, well, at least I knew where that was.  I smiled and thanked him and went on my way, not eager to try another internet point.

The Rialto.  That had been my lunch plan.  Well, at least if I went there in the morning, the shops would be open, and I would be able to assemble a picnic for later.  I quickly revised my plan, checked the hours of operation for Saint Mark’s and struck out for the Rialto bridge.

I was one canal up from the route I’d taken several times to the Rialto via the Accademia.  Ready for a new adventure, I fell in line behind a stream of locals, and headed in the general direction of the bridge.  One thing I’ve found is that if I find a string of apparently unrelated locals walking swiftly in the same direction, the street is unlikely to lead to a dead end.  One local might just be hurrying home, and lead you to a dead end street.  A group of tourists might be going anywhere and are totally unhelpful for navigating.  So I walked on with the locals – to a dead end.  The street ended at the edge of the Grand Canal, with nowhere to go but out into the water.  And then I realized where I was.

This was a traghetto stop!  Traghetti are gondolas that ferry people back and forth across the Grand Canal.  While a fancy gondola ride can cost upwards of 100 Euro, a traghetto ride costs only 50 cents.  Riders typically stand as the two gondoliers shuttle them from one side to the other.  I had wanted to experience this (an expensive gondola ride wasn’t on my list of things to do), but really had no idea how.  But now, I just followed the person in front of me as we climbed aboard, paid the 50 cents and piled aboard.  The experience was very similar to being on a subway car.  Everyone stood very close to each other, swaying a bit with the movement of the boat.  One smiling passenger took video of the entire thing, and I snapped a covert pic.

It was super-fun riding with the locals commuting to work, and the traghetto put me in the right area to head to the Rialto.  I walked for the next few minutes, my eyes peeled for the Vodafone center.  I remembered seeing it the night before, but couldn’t remember where.  The district around the bridge was crowded with people, and the bridge itself was alive with the colorful stalls that had been closed when I first saw it in the dark.  I found no Vodafone on the East side of the bridge, so I headed across, to the West side, and the markets.

The markets on the West side of the Rialto are amazing.  There are fish vendors selling fresh fish of various types.  And there is a lovely produce market where you can buy fruits and vegetables of all colors.

Still looking for the Vodafone center, I wandered in and out of the stalls that surround the market.  I found Wind and TIM and Alice, all the competitors to Vodafone, but I couldn’t locate the store.  I wound in circles, thinking I had missed it.  As I passed by fruit vendors and bread shops, I decided what I wanted to have for lunch.  I hopped into a shop to pick up a loaf of multigrain bread, then to a shop for a hunk of assiago cheese.  Finally I picked out a single apple from a lonely vendor, and my perfect picnic was complete.  But I still didn’t have internet service.  I asked the lady at the cheese shop.  She sent me down a street I’d walked three times already.  Afraid that she was sending me to the Alice/TIM shop, I wandered, and found what I was afraid of.  “Prego,” I decided to ask the man in the competitor store where to go.  “The other side of the bridge.  Turn right.”

The other side of the bridge.  I was starting to feel like I was on an episode of candid camera.  I had now spent over an hour searching for this place.  But at least I had my little picnic tucked inside my overflowing bag.

There are several places to turn right when coming over the Rialto bridge.  I had no idea which right I was supposed to take, so I chose to systematically eliminate the possibilities.  The first right took me along the canal, past gondolas and coffee shops – but no Vodafone.

I walked through the Rialto again, past all the shops I’d passed earlier, halfway back to the traghetto stop.  This was ridiculous.  I turned around, walked back, saw nothing, and tried again.  Finally I asked a young man standing outside a restaurant.  Disappointed that I wasn’t actually interested in his establishment, he coldly pointed me back toward the bridge, while looking the other way.  “Up here?”  “Si.”  I was seriously striking out with the young Italian men today.

This time, I saw the red letters of the Vodafone logo just off one of the squares.  It looked closed – like under construction closed.  But one of the doors was ajar, so I pulled it open and stuck my head in to find several people looking at me.  They weren’t open.  The signs on the door probably told me that, but they were in Italian, and I was feeling desperate, knowing that stores would be closing in about 30 minutes for lunch.  One of the men came outside with me to show me a map plastered on the door that told me where the other store was.  I looked at it, memorized a couple of street names and went around the corner to find the place.  After another ten minutes of wandering back and forth, back and forth, I went back to the closed shop to have another look at the map.  I really thought I had it, when I realized the map was upside down.  I had enough.  I took out my camera and took a picture.  Now I had a map to carry with me.  Two minutes later, I was in the open Vodafone store, and 5 minutes later, I had my internet service again.  I also had a pretty good understanding of the Rialto bridge area – a bonus for my trouble.

As shops started to shut down, I rearranged my plan for the day, and headed over to Saint Mark’s to see what I could accomplish before dark.  I knew that I could buy a “museum pass” at the Doge’s palace that would let me into a bunch of museums, so I headed there first.  Once inside, I decided to run through the palace.  I could always come back later with my pass.  I hit the opera museum with its huge columns, the palazzo courtyard, and the bathroom.  Then I entered the palace itself.  It was big and interesting, housing the senate chambers, different courts, residences, and the armory.

I made it through about half before I started getting hungry.  By the time I reached the armory I was pretty much starving.  It was only my deep love of swords and armor that kept me focused at all.  I wanted to look at every, single blade, regarding them lovingly, with an appreciation I can’t explain.  But there are a lot of swords in the armory.  It took a lot of time.  And I hadn’t seen the prisons yet.  I considered reaching into my bag to pry a hunk of bread off of my little loaf, but thought the ubiquitous museum guards might frown on that.  So I continued on to the prisons, thinking of the apple and cheese I had under my arm.

To reach the prisons, you cross the “bridge of sighs” which links them to the palace – to the courts.  It’s under scaffolding right now, but it’s supposed to be really pretty.  I’ll have to come back and see it.  From the inside it’s really cramped, and smelled like every prison I’ve ever toured (yes, I’ve toured a few).

The prison itself was fascinating.  I opted for the “complete prison tour” which lead through several floors of stone cells, wood doors, and huge bars.  There was even a display of the art that prisoners had scratched into the walls and windowsills over the centuries that the prison was in use.

Back across the sighing bridge, I practically ran through the rest of the palace and out into St. Mark’s where I scoped out a spot for my picnic.  Picnicing is illegal in most of Venice, especially St. Mark’s, where police roam around watching for people like me who are brazen enough to munch in the open.

I put on the raincoat I had been carrying in my bag to make more room, and transferred the slab of cheese to my coat pocket.  That done, I had easy access to both my bread and cheese, which I cut with my handy-dandy pocketknife.

While I ate, I disguised myself as an interested tourist, reading about the renovations to the drainage system in the square.  The police were far more interested in the people who were sitting among the zillions of pigeons.  Even when seagulls circled and came in to harass me for snacks, I went unnoticed.

Well fueled, I gathered myself and headed across the square and into St. Mark’s basillico.  I’m not an expert, but St. Mark’s is different from any church I’ve ever seen.  For a start, you’ve got the outside, which is incredibly striking at any time of the day or night.  Today, it was grey outside, but St. Mark’s still shone.

It really shines, inside and out.  The gold of the mosaics is dizzying.

It was nearing closing time for the church, so I did a circuit of the basilica and headed into the treasury to see the spoils of war brought back from Byzantium – and a bunch of creepy relics.  I grew up Catholic and was pretty darn involved in the church.  But I’ve never really gotten into the idea of keeping the bones and clothes of saints.  It’s just a little creepy to me.  So, I took a peek at the arms, legs, and skulls of the saints and headed back out into the square and the steadily darkening night.  I’d come back for the other St. Mark’s attractions tomorrow.

I was tired.  It had already been a long day, and I was ready for a nap before dinner.  I got my bearings and started the trek back to the hotel.  It was a beautiful evening, dry and relatively warm.  A few blocks off of St. Mark’s as I stopped to take a picture of passing gondolas, I remembered my plan from earlier in the day.

A vaporetto tour down the Grand Canal!  Crap.  And I was so looking forward to a nap.  I reached into my bag for a hunk of bread and altered my course.  If I was going to do the boat tour, tonight was the night.    I consulted the map and saw that there was a traghetto stop not far from where I was.  Pefect.  The night was getting darker, and I wanted to be on the vaporetto while there was still some light.  A short ride later, I was on the other side of the canal, and on my way to the vaporetto.

I hopped on with all the other tourists who had just arrived on the train and were looking for their hotels.  Grabbing a good standing spot with leaning room, I positioned myself for what would be a really good way to see the great palaces of the city.  We chugged along from stop to stop, the driver bumping unceremoniously into the docks, and the conductor throwing out thick ropes to hold us against the straining engines.

The Canal was beautiful, but allowed for only shaky pictures as we moved along the water.

We cruised past the Rialto bridge, the Academia, countless ca’ (only the royal palace could be called “palazzo” evidently) and finally St. Mark’s.  By the time I stepped off the 45 minute boat ride, it was dark.  I had seen a lot of Venice.  I was happy, tired, and ready for dinner.

After a fairly comfortable 6 hour train ride, I arrived in Venice.  The trip came together quickly – about two days after I realized that my time in this leap is coming to a swift close.  The journey to Venice itself was a nice adventure.  I thought I’d get up at about 6 or 6:15 to walk to the station and catch the 7:35 train to Lucca.  But, through a series of miscommunications, I ended up sleeping until about 7, which mean I had exactly 35 minutes to get dressed, shoulder my pack, walk to the station and secure a ticket.  Fortunately, I’ve taken the train from Fornaci to Lucca once before, and the ticket machine was being agreeable, so I was able to navigate with about 5 minutes to spare.  Perfect.

Like last time, I ended up commuting with a bunch of high school kids who were headed to school.  Once in Lucca I waited in line at the ticket counter with the kids, and purchased a ticket for my first ride on a high-speed train.  I’d pick up the train in Florence, after an hour-long ride on a regional train from Lucca.

I grabbed a seat across from a nice young woman, wrapped my legs around my pack, and drifted off to sleep – along with the woman across from me.  Getting up at 7 meant no time for coffee, and it was now almost 9.  My brain was shutting down with the lack of caffeine.

When I woke up, it was to find a hand near my face, pointing to my foot.  The young conductor was here – and he was agitated.  I reached for my ticket.  “No.”  He was concerned about my foot, which was resting on the seat opposite me.  Oh shit, I put my foot on the seat.  I don’t really know what he said, because I was still half-asleep, but the woman across from me had her eyebrows raised.  Somewhere inside me I must have understood, because I reached over and brushed off the place where my food had been (there was nothing there, just by the way), and then heard him say something to the effect of “with velocity”  “con veloce” possibly.  So I brushed faster, and he seemed moderately happy.  I apologized, in Italian, for not speaking Italian well.  This led to a minute long tirade, in Italian, about how, if everyone put their foot on the seat every day, it would make the seats disgusting, and he wouldn’t want to sit on them.  (Just by the way, the seats were already disgusting, and my shoe was probably cleaner.  Still, I got the point.)  I had attracted attention, and people were leaning into the aisle to take a look.

I apologized, told him I understood and handed him my ticket, secretly excited that I had understood the lecture.  I closed my eyes and heard another voice.  When I opened my eyes again, I found the woman across from me smiling – and offering me some hand sanitizer.  She obviously agreed that the seats were already disgusting.  I thanked her, we smiled at each other, and promptly both fell asleep, her head bent completely forward and mine lolling on the headrest.

When we reached Florence, I was excited.  I’d been here twice before and knew the station.  And I had about 40 minutes – enough time to grab some coffee and a pastry at a place friends had taken me to last time I was there.  I made my way out of the station and found the café.  I ordered, ate, used the restroom and made it back to the station with plenty of time to catch the train – which was late.

The second the reader board posted the departure platform, I rushed over with a zillion other people.  I walked down toward the end of the train, hoping to find a relatively empty car, and ended up sitting in a row by myself while the other hoards of English-speakers combed the compartments for their assigned seats.  (Truth be told, I didn’t even think to look at my ticket for an assigned seat.  I think I just lucked out that the ones I chose were empty.  Excellent.)

We rode along and I napped, read my Italian Harry Potter and listened-in on the business man who was talking non-stop on his cell phone.  The landscape changed from city to suburb to vast, open green dotted with houses, and finally to water.

And then we were in Venice.  The 10 minute train ride to the island felt oddly like the tram ride from the parking lot to the gates of Disneyland.  People were milling about, gathering their belongings.  Couples were kissing and taking each other’s pictures, and I was hopping from one side of the train to the other, trying to capture the views.

In the approach to Venice, I had studied the map, trying to make sure I’d be able to find my way to the hotel, a good 30 minute walk from the train station.  I could take the vaporetto boats but I thought it would be more interesting to walk and see the neighborhoods.  I was confident that I could make it to the hotel eventually.  Go across the bridge, hang a right, turn left after the second canal, cross at the 5^th bridge, turn left at the canal, walk past the hospital , over the bridge, hang a left and there it would be.  Simple, right?

And then it started raining.  Due to the train delay, I had exactly 35 minutes to get to the hotel by check-in.  So I put on my rain gear, walked out, and started the trek.

As soon as I left the area of the train station, a quiet settled over the neighborhoods.  There were very few people on the streets and almost no tourists.  I became immediately distracted by the immense beauty of the city.  Everywhere I turned was another postcard.  Everything seemed so peaceful and dreamlike as I walked over bridges and along canals.

Distractions aside, I did pretty well.  I was able to make it into the Dorsoduro neighborhood just fine.  In the end, I only missed one turn, but realized it almost at once.  I walked right past a street that looked like a normal street on the map, but in reality was about 3 feet wide.  I almost missed it the second time.  This was my introduction to Venice streets.  Not intended for anything other than pedestrian traffic, these alleys are tiny.  I thought I was about to walk into Diagon Alley at every turn, and really wondered if anyone else saw the turn that I had missed.

A short walk further, and I saw the emblematic lantern of my hotel, Locanda Montin.  Placed along a quiet canal, the hotel was perfect.  I walked in the door to find myself in an old-school inn.  The high, dark wood front desk stood just to the right of the door, inside the restaurant that makes up the first floor.

Georgio showed me to the upper floors where I had my choice of the single I had booked, or a 10 Euro upgrade to a double with private bath.  Bingo.  The canal view room sits at the top of the hotel overlooking the quiet, picturesque canal below.

I threw down my backpack, grabbed my computer bag and rushed downstairs, eager to head out into the city.

The next two hours were spent tramping around as much of the city as I could see before my feet started screaming at me about the two days of downhill trekking they had just completed.

Starving for a bite to eat, I found the first shop selling pizza by the slice and ordered one with veggies.  It was huge and lovely, covered with zucchini.  I sat in the piazza and watched as a couple of men and a few seagulls cleaned up what looked like a fish market.

The pizza was excellent and I was still hungry.  I considered going back in for another, but decided to walk along and see what else I could find.  The second slice had eggplant and peppers.  It was a piece of art to look at, and tasty.

I stuffed it in my face as I walked past jewelry shops and bakeries, and in the first dead end of the day that lead to a private dock on a tiny canal.

My third and final slice of the day was margheritta (tomato sauce, mozzarella and basil).  It had the best crust of the three, but ended up soggy due to the amount of grease rolling off of it, and down my chin.

This one I enjoyed as I walked down small, residential alleys.

I didn’t pull a map the entire time.  I just walked and let my gut guide me.  And it guided me well.  I passed the same sweet shop three times from different directions.  On the third pass, it had been long enough since the pizza that I thought I could have a cappu and a snack.

This resulted in a fantastic, dense, chocolate cake with a layer of some kind of berry jam.  I enjoyed it at the bar along with my cappuccino as I gazed into the back at the racks of beautiful panettone that are starting to arrive in shops along with the Christmas season.

The day wore on, and I kept walking.  As it got darker, the city felt warmer.  A kind of glow seemed to come from the bricks and stones themselves.

I decided to head back to the hotel.  After wandering for an hour and a half, I had started to see the pattern of Venice emerge.  I watched as women disappeared into little more than cracks in the wall at the end of apparent dead ends – and I followed them, winding my way back to where I thought the hotel was.  I ventured into little piazzas and found beautiful Corinthian columns hiding just out of sight.

And I watched gondoliers making their way through the canals at dusk.

The day of wandering served me well.  In no time at all I was back in front of the lamp and the front door to my hotel.  And then in my room wishing my family a happy Thanksgiving, and planning my night – my next adventure into the beautiful, surreal city.

The first time I sat down with Frank, I was eager to pick his brain.  He has spent time in many places, and I hoped he could help me work out the cities I wanted to visit.  I told him Venice was on my list.  “I would urge you to follow your instinct on that one.  There is no place in the world like Venice.”  So I put it at the top.

When I came to Italy it was with no expectations, but with thoughts of grand adventures in grand cities.  Four weeks have past.  Four weeks of fantastic adventures and wonderfully people.  I’ve had side trips to Lucca and to Florence; to the mountains and to the sea.  But I haven’t visited any of the big cities I had in mind.  Venice and Rome still sit at the top of my list.

I realized a couple of days ago that I really only have 2 weekends left in Italy.  Wow.  Time to get movin’.  I thought that I would have visited three countries by now.  But the day-to-day comfort of a routine has kept me winding up and down the hill from Fornaci to Barga, happy to have a familiar place to sleep and good friends to talk with – content to learn about myself here.

But now, with the end of this leap in sight, I’m ready to venture out.  I asked around.  None of my family or friends had much in the way of suggestions for places to stay, so last night I pulled out my handy-dandy Rick Steves (tragically incomplete, but terrifically helpful) guide to Italy and started working my way through the list of Venice hotels.  I picked about 16 and started checking availability.  By the end of the evening I had 3 places I really liked.  I sent email inquiries to see what the prices would be (Venice hotels list a range of prices on their websites for each room), and checked the trenitalia website to find a good itinerary.

This morning I woke to a number of emails from various hotels.  I was able to find a three night stay in all three of my favorites, and even talked the fancy hotel down to 80 Euro (which I thought was pretty excellent given its usual price of 145).  And then I got an email from Frank.  A couple of emails and 20 minutes later, and I was in his house drinking coffee and talking Venice hotels.  I showed him the ones I was looking at and he gave input as to the locations and décor.  And I looked at the modestly appointed, “functional” hotel he had pulled up on his computer.  I wasn’t wild about it, but it was in a good location, and was about 20 Euro less per night than any of my picks.  “Why don’t you take a cheaper hotel and stay another night?  Venice is wonderful.”  He had a point.

“There is one other place, but it’s really hard to get in.”  He pulled up the clunky website for the Locanda Montin.  Its homepage featured a picture of Jimmy Carter and a list of celebrities and VIPs who frequent the place.  “It’s a really great place.  Shall we give them a call?”  I agreed – so long as Frank talked.  Five minutes later I had a reservation for 3 (or 4) nights at 50 Euro.  We were both shocked and pleased.  Finding availability was one thing, but the price was unbelievable.

I stayed for lunch and Frank pulled out maps and guidebooks for Venice.  We studied the best walking route from the train station to the hotel and discussed which train would be best.

I’m finding it a wonderful thing to accept the help of other people – whether it’s a familiar place to sleep every night, or directions to the path that leads home, or lunch and hotel reservations.  It’s not something I’ve always been so good at.  But here, where I know so little and am so far out of my element, I’m finding it easier and easier.

Tomorrow I leave for Venice, but I won’t go alone.  I’m leaving with Frank’s maps and guidebook, and the knowledge that my little bed will be waiting for me when I come home.

Things are starting to be familiar in the little towns of Barga and Fornaci. Some of the shop workers recognize me when I walk in, and I don’t get lost every time I walk the curving streets of the hilly city. I even understood two complete sentences yesterday. Amazing.

Last night, we visited a familiar place, a restaurant with tall ceilings and exposed rock walls, and a deep-voiced owner. Six months ago I sat in that same restaurant with three new friends, my dad’s cell phone, stashed deep in my pocket the only lifeline to my family and my ride home – and to the life I was about to leave.

Six months ago!

Six months ago I owned a home, two cars, a bunch of stuff, had a steady job and a home with a wonderful woman. I had a lot of good friends who made me smile regularly and the best dog ever. And I felt lost.

Six months ago my life changed. I can’t really explain, other than to say that the deep feeling of belonging and connectedness that I found in the one day I spent here with strangers rocked my world. I was struck with the immediate understanding that the world is full of fantastic people and places, people and places that I was waiting to see.

Waiting. Waiting. And, the idea of waiting to live hit me in the gut. What was I waiting for? I like to think of myself as a pretty self-aware person (I know, insert laughter), but the justifications kicked-in. My job , my house, my life, my dog, my bank account all asserted themselves as good reasons for waiting. I heard myself saying that it would be great to travel when I retired. And in that moment, something snapped.

Six months ago, on the last day of my family vacation, I spent the evening in a restaurant with three beautiful, perfect strangers who welcomed me with open arms and open hearts. And that was enough. The questions about my life, my purpose, my place in the world, questions that plagued me for years melted away, replaced by a much simpler dialogue: “go back to Barga” and “okay, I think I will”.

Sure, a bunch of my stuff is in a storage facility, and my car is at my sister’s. Sure, my dog is living with my wonderful ex-girlfriend and I have standing offers to stay with friends whenever I need. It’s not like I joined the Peace Corps and moved to Africa.

But, it’s still a little shaking to think how little things can change someone’s world so completely. One evening of kindness and six months later I’m living with strangers who look more and more like family every time we cook together, and every evening when we say goodnight.

I hope that I will take with me the knowledge that anything, and I mean anything is possible in my life, and that kindness shown to a stranger can do amazing, powerful things.

One of the first things I learned in high school Spanish was the phrase “poco a poco se va lejos.”  It means, “little by little, one goes far.”

Over the last few days I’ve taken a lot of little steps.  I purchased a pack and a new sleeping bag.  I picked up a new pair of walking shoes – after 8 years – and even a pair of fast drying underwear.  Fancy.

Right now, I’m typing on a new netbook, one that I think will work wonderfully for keeping in touch and updating MidLeap as I travel around.

I don’t know that I’ve ever purchased so many new things in one weekend.  It makes me vaguely uneasy.  I think it’s because it reminds me of the consumerist life I used to live.  Still, I’ve purchased a handful of things that I will be depending on every day for the next while, and I know they’ll help me in my grand adventure.

The thing I had the hardest time purchasing was my plane ticket.  That’s taken a while.  I’ve put it off because I have a lot to do.  I’ve put it off to work in the yard.  I’ve put it off because I wanted to play RockBand.  Today, I stopped putting it off.  Once I clicked the “submit” button, I felt a great relief.  But in the days leading up to it, I had a hard time figuring out why I was delaying.

Today I realized that the plane ticket was the last thing keeping me from moving forward…well, the last thing, aside from me.

I have great ideas almost daily.  Inspiration is never far off for me.  It’s the follow-through I struggle with.  I’d love to be part of a think-tank, developing fantastic, cutting-edge ideas, or an inventor, creating new things – and handing them to a team for implementation.

My decision to change the direction of my life isn’t totally out-of-the-ordinary for me.  My follow-through is.  When I bought my plane ticket today, it was a breakthrough moment.  I literally felt the push-back as I moved from the world where I have held myself back, into the world where all there is is opportunity, and support and love.

I know that my friends and family have always supported me in whatever it is I’ve done.  For the first time, maybe, I feel like I’m supporting me, too.  Now it’s time to see just how far I can go.