Countdown to leaving. ?11 days

So it starts, the blog that folks have asked me to write.  I am not a writer by trade or avocation.  Indeed, I usually do not share much of myself in conversation, but prefer to listen.  This, then, represents a difficult challenge: to learn the world of blogging and to share my life for the next year. 

Somehow, I have yet to come to the full realization of the decision I have made.  I do have moments of fear, exhilaration, sadness, joy, but these pass quickly.  Mostly, I have lists of things to do: boxes to pack, calls to make, and letters to write, addresses to change.  I don't really know when I am leaving.  Perhaps that lack of finality contributes to a sensation of illusion that currently envelops my thoughts around actually being in Auckland..

Waiting for the visa is the traveler's bane.  My first application was missing signatures on photos, and a few minor mistakes were made.  I should have caught them all. I have no one to blame but myself for not reviewing each entry on the physician's form before I left.  The revised application should have been received by the consulate yesterday.  Von, at the consulate, had thought it would be ten days before the visa would be back in my hands. Yet, I worry that if I buy my plane ticket now, I run the risk of paying fines to alter my plans if the visa is delayed due to further oversights.

On a different note, I hope that once I am there I can embrace the adventure. Learn daily.  Remain aware.
Kyra sent me this poem via email today.  I am reminded that I need to open the door daily to a new day, a different adventure, and to new friends and community. 

The door

Go and open the door.
    Maybe outside there's
    a tree, or a wood,
    a garden,
    or a magic city.

Go and open the door.
    Maybe a dog's rummaging.
    Maybe you'll see a face,
or an eye,
or the picture
                     of a picture.

Go and open the door.
    If there's a fog
    it will clear.

Go and open the door.
    Even if there's only
    the darkness ticking,
    even if there's only
    the hollow wind,
    even if
               nothing
                           is there,
go and open the door.

At least
there'll be
a draught.

Miroslav Holub
translated from the Czech by Ian Miller.