I now call myself the email dumpster. Everyday I get emails from Honolulu Homes wanting to sell me time-share condos or Annoying PR person telling me I’m privileged to get the chance to interview a Beverly Hills, plastic surgery wonder, turned author.
I thank the ‘delete’ button constantly, but once in a while I actually receive an email of substance, for example on September 17th, these precious words lightened my mood and the bunions on my aching, flat feet:
“Hey, I just spent an hour or so reading your blog. I just wanted to says thanks for sharing your experiences, and I will definitely be reading more. It’s been really empowering and helpful to see a woman be nomadic. I would like to get out and experience the world more, so it feels good to know that women especially can do it, and safely, and solo.”
Not sure how I feel about being referred to as ‘hey’, but she clearly likes me. Amiright?
This email seems to culminate with last month. See, I decided to do a numerology reading with an experienced numerologist recommended by a trusted friend. Yeah, you know, mumbo jumbo, the power of numbers, the full meaning of your birthdate and then some.
Numerologist: The thing is Jeannie, your purpose in life is to show others… how can I put this? Show others the way of wholeness.
Me: I can do this for others?
Numerologist: Yes… Not to give you any ideas here, but the full vibration of your name is Jesus.
Me: [Silence] [Shock] [Weirdness] Are you kidding me?
Numerologist: Haha.. Not at all. When it comes right down to it, you are a very powerful lady, Jeannie, more than you realize.
So, apparently I can inspire women to contemplate solo travel and show others with my Jesus-like vibe the path to freedom, happiness and peace.
It’s not a terrible position to be in, but talk about pressure.
I bounced around Europe during the summer, sharing all that I discovered through this blog and now I sit back in China – the lustre of old European castles, cheap beer and handsome, French men fading fast.
As my numerologist pointed out, I don’t lounge around in my holy toga and hand-woven leather sandals, thinking that all of you should now worship me (though, you should).
No, no… What I am is sickeningly fallible.
You see, Jesus is scared shitless sometimes.
Jesus is broke as ass.
Jesus got frickin tired of sharing hostel dorms with loud, rude 19 year old Australians circling Europe on their stupid Busabout tour. Everyday, a busload showed up. Everyday, Jesus rarely got solid sleep or listened to a conversation without hearing, “Wazz gaween, maaaate?”. Yup, Jesus can get irritated.
Jesus can be indecisive, take missteps and not always end up where she wants to be.
Jesus can really doubt herself.
Clearly I’m not entirely kosher with all this Jesus business. It’s strange. A harsh shot of whiskey to swallow.
Today, Megan messaged me:
“I love your blog! I just finished a 22 month trip and wish I found you sooner. You are so honest and it’s nice to see someone who is. Look forward to reading more!”
That’s when I computed the gravity of being an inspiration. It’s being transparent. Telling the truth. Making mistakes and learning. Even to help a Megan or a Jennifer.
In this respect, I feel more comfortable serving as an example, less freaked out. Because when you think about it, Jesus was also a man. A person.
Which certainly doesn’t put me in the same vicinity as him, but slots me as a flawed, human inspiration? Maybe.
That I can live with.
I tell ya though, that toga is itchy and the sandals are murder on my feet.