“If you watched a movie about a guy who wanted a Volvo and worked for years to get it, you wouldn’t cry at the end when he drove off the lot, testing the windshield wipers. You wouldn’t tell your friends you saw a beautiful movie or go home and put a record on to think about the story you’d seen. The truth is, you wouldn’t remember that movie a week later, except you’d feel robbed and want your money back. Nobody cries at the end of a movie about a guy who wants a Volvo.
But we spend years actually living those stories, and expect our lives to feel meaningful. The truth is, if what we choose to do with our lives won’t make a story meaningful, it won’t make a life meaningful either.”
—Donald Miller, A Million Miles in a Thousand Years
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I met a guy named Dan in Lima. He, along with some other vagabonds, volunteer at the hostel we stayed at in exchange for free housing. Dan is probably in his mid-30s, and he always wore a denim ball cap, baggy pants and a light jacket that was zipped up to his chin. I’m not sure why because the temperatures in Peru are meltingly hot. But Dan is kind of socially awkward, so I didn’t ask questions about his clothes. I figured he’d look at me like I was stupid or something.
One morning my fellow yogie Abby and I were piecing together a breakfast of bread and fruit. Dan must’ve been scheduled for kitchen duty that day because he was busy replenishing the croissants and coffee. You know the saying “curiosity killed the cat”? Well, Abby and I are cats. We’re not really cats. We’re just overtly curious about people.
Abby had already made friends with Dan, so naturally, we assumed a level two friendship status and started peppering him with questions. I couldn’t tell if we were making him uncomfortable or if he was actually enjoying our conversation. We pressed gently on though, backing off when he squirmed at the mention of certain topics, and over the course of half an hour, he’d given us a gap-filled version of his story.
Dan was born in California. He lived there for 12 years, or maybe it was five years. Anyway, he moved to Mexico at an early age. That’s where his grandmother’s husband lived. Dan always liked being on the water. He grew up sailing and swimming and surfing. He speaks fluent Spanish and studied art history in Spain. While he was in Europe, he traveled around looking at architecture and sculptures and paintings. I think he studied stateside too. Maybe. And I might be making this part up, but I’m pretty sure he mentioned being in Japan for a while.
Now he travels from country to country with no real plan other than knowing he can teach Spanish and paint for money. Dan likes Peru and Costa Rica in particular. I guess because of the waves. My favorite part of our conversation was when he talked about surfing.
“One day, I just realized surfing was supposed to be a part of my life… it’s a part of who I am,” he said. “How often do you go?” I wondered aloud. “Everyday if I can.” Curiosity was creeping its way through my mind by now. “What time?” Seeming unbothered by my need for details, he replied “I leave the hostel around 5:30 in the morning.”
I needed to take a shower, so I told Dan he should write a book then headed for the sliding glass doors. On my way out, something stopped me from moving any further. I turned around and told Dan he was an inspiration. I told him it’s cool when people actually live out their dreams, even the farfetched ones. And I told him it’s nice to meet gypsy-spirited people who refuse to plant roots for the sake of planting roots.
Now given, Dan could be running. I really don’t know. But the perfect last words of my new surfer friend gave me hope.
“Yeah, I move with the drift.”
Maybe he is running from something. But maybe he isn’t running. Maybe the water and waves really are a part of who Dan is, where he feels most like himself. Maybe he’s just waist-deep in a meaningful life… a life of back and forthness that he was created to live.
I thought about Dan on the bus from Lima to Chincha. And I thought about me—about who I am. What do I want to do with my life? What are my passions? What are my opinions? What are my beliefs? What do I like? What do I not like?
I don’t want to spend my life borrowing someone else’s heart and mind. So I asked myself, right there in my bus seat, “What are you, Julie, going to do about it?” Then I made a list. A working list of my dreams, my likes and dislikes and some completely random thoughts.
“There are different kinds of gifts, but the same Spirit. There are different kinds of service, but the same Lord. There are different kinds of working, but the same God works all of them in all men.”
—I Corinthians 12:4-6
Part II coming soon.
With love,
Julie
