Oh, how busy we all are.
How central to the success of our families, places of work and communities.
In our corner of the world, we are important.
But wait….. Perhaps the world will continue turning if you take a break now and then. And, just maybe, on your return you’ll make a better contribution to it.
This, in part, is what long-term (career-break) travel is all about. It’s about learning your insignificance and then your significance.
What stops us? In some cases it’s money but money can often be sorted out. No, prominent in the cocktail of self-inflicted tactics used to delay taking a long-term trip is the notion that we are important, that we will be missed and, our contribution to the world will be missed.
I’m here to say that I went away for 10 months and the world did not stop. Jeff of Career Break Secrets took his career break and the world managed without him too. Sherry of Meet Plan Go went and the world continued to turn. In today’s poem, Kathryn Simmonds, a British poet born in 1972 illustrates that stepping off the planet is not just for busy Type A personalities. It is for Hare Krishnas, sous chefs, apprentice pharmacists… It is for everyone. .
The World Won’t Miss You for a While
Lie down with me you hillwalkers and rest,
untie your boots and separate your toes,
ignore the compass wavering north/north west.
Quit trailing through the overcrowded streets
with tinkling bells, you child of Hare Krishna.
Hush. Unfurl your saffron robes. How sweet
the grass. And you, photographer of wars,
lie down and cap your lens. Ambassador,
take off your dancing shoes. There are no laws
by which you must abide oh blushing boy
with Stanley knife, no county magistrates
are waiting here to dress you down: employ
yourself with cutting up these wild flowers
as you like. Sous chef with baby guinea fowl
to stuff, surveillance officer with hours
to fill, and anorexic weighing up a meal,
lie down. Girl riding to an interview,
turn back before they force you to reveal
your hidey holes. Apprentice pharmacist,
leave carousels of second generation
happy pills. The long term sad. And journalist
with dreams, forget the man from Lancashire
who lost his tongue, the youth who found it,
kept it quivering in a matchbox for a year.
poem from “Sunday at the Skin Launderette” by Kathryn Simmonds