This week I made myself and husband a fried egg and guacamole burrito. I bit into it and the yolk burst violently. Oozing everywhere, including in the wild strands of my hair that had wafted precariously close to the burrito.
Disaster.
Dive into life like I dove into that burrito. Straight on, without a thought of what can go wrong. Because if we worried only about everything that could go wrong, we’d miss out on everything that could go oh so delectably well.
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This week Facebook took the liberty of reminding me that 10 years ago I headed out on my first cross continental adventure.
I had booked a 10-week volunteer itinerary to Ecuador that I set off on with a handful of anxious looking 18-year-olds who’d taken the same plunge. They were all strangers. It would take us to the Andes, the pacific coast and the Ecuadorian Amazon.
There were insects the size of my face, a foreign language, food I’d never approached, work in 90% humidity.
I milked a cow, drank the milk, got ill. Zip lined. I built a bus shelter with palm leaves. I cohabited a treehouse with two tarantulas. A monkey peed on my leg. I showered with a bucket. Washed my underwear in a river. I swam with hammer head sharks and manta rays.
All in a 10-week stint.
However, if I had mulled over that trip long enough, I’d never have even gotten on the plane.
Luckily with the ransom paid of my hard-earned cash, I had no choice.
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Gosh was that trip a guacamole egg burrito.
I prepared for all the good parts. I didn’t prepare for the bad parts. But the good parts outweighed the bad parts so much that I can barely even remember the bad parts.
10 years in and out of the mother land since and there are no regrets.
