qos: (Accolade)
[personal profile] qos
I am not being metaphorical here, my friends.

Longtime readers of this journal may remember that the metaphor of the Journey has been important to me since junior high. "The Journeys" are the name of my personal mythic saga that I started writing at age twelve, a story which began with an airline trip to Southern California and went on to describe how my alter ego became the heroine I dreamed of becoming. Each Journey was a new training exercise, but also very real life. Also, I went to college in California, and the flights there from the Northwest were always powerful for me. The flight to P-con had been more emotional than I had anticipated because the view of the landscape below brought up those old memories as well as the mythic associations. I was keenly aware that this trip, this adventure, was a Journey in my oldest, most sacred sense.

As soon as I walked into the lobby of the Doubletree, I saw [livejournal.com profile] oakmouse sitting exactly where she said she'd be: at one of the tables making a semi-circle across the lobby. Beyond those tables was a slightly lower level with a wet bar and a sushi bar. To the right of the lounge (on the main level) was the registration desk.

[livejournal.com profile] oakmouse greeted me with a hug, and her friend -- soon to be my friend -- M immediately went to get me a soft drink. I knew I couldn't handle alcohol at that moment. My head was already spinning a bit as I took in the amazing "festive garb" of the other participants and the less-obvious but still potent energy of the con, and I was grateful to just sit there and try to ground. But just a few minutes later, [livejournal.com profile] oakmouse urged me to get in the registration line before it got long again.

I really didn't want to get up, but felt she was right: best to get it over with when the line was short. So I grabbed my purse, pushed myself to my feet, and got in line.

I had to wait for a few minutes, and my gaze was naturally drawn to the widescreen television at the near end of the sushi bar.

No sooner had I turned my gaze there when the image shifted to an outdoor landscape (maybe a misty view of a lake surrounded by trees?) and these words printed across the screen:

This is a journey.

I stared at the words, stunned.

There was no voice behind them. I can't remember if the sound was turned off or if there was just music. All that hit me were the words that went on and on, each phrase replacing the last.

A journey is not a trip.

A journey is not a vacation.

It is a process of self discovery.

Does the journey create the person?

Or does the person create the journey?



There was more than that, but that's all I managed to scribble in my notebook.

My stomach was thudding, my head was more floaty than before, and I had tears in my eyes.

Right place at the right time?
Oh, yes. . . .

And Someone wanted to be sure that I knew it, right from the start.
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