This sabbatical I'm taking, or "full blown meltdown" as some have called it, whatever, has been a looooong time coming. Long. Basically since I moved to Atlanta in 2012. Instead of making a lifestyle change after I left that job, I did the intelligent thing and doubled down by working for five more years in increasingly terrible work situations, bouncing back to LA and then eventually landing in New York. Never let it be said that I'm a quitter!

When I first broached the idea of throwing everything into a flaming dumpster in order to find myself, everyone and I mean EVERYONE brought up, "EAT PRAY LOVE". Aside from loathing the book with every fiber of my being, I also just didn't feel like it would end up being that type of sabbatical. Everything in "Eat Pray Love" feels lovely and sensual and CHIC. These are things I am not...I'm much, much, messier. I'm not even "UNDER THE TUSCAN SUN" level at this point, though Diane and I do enjoy a good meltdown after a bottle of wine. Nah, whatever soul-searching I'm doing is not going to end with me strolling around my Tuscan garden in a raw silk ensemble as I host a wedding for the gentlefolk who helped me restore my villa. The only thing I currently entertain in my backyard is the neighborhood skunk I've dubbed, "Skunky Brewster", and I fear this friendship will not end well, either.

But last week, after the most magical hike, on my 38th birthday, which I spent in the woods wandering around like a feral wood nymph, it was then that I realized the type of sabbatical I'd be taking. And it wouldn't be some sort of sexy adventure in a tropical climate - laden with well-hung men fucking me back into the world of the living, beachside in a private cabana, while the Cocktail soundtrack softly played in the background. Nope, this would involve a lot of mud, snow and skinned knees. And a shameful lack of dong. Guys, I'm fucking WILD'n Out here in Vermont. This makes sense, I suppose. I've always loved National Parks and exploring - so much so that as a kid I wanted to be a tour guide/Park Ranger when I grew up. Specifically at Mount ST Helens. I loved that stupid volcano so much. I spent my summers in the Pacific Northwest used to beg my grandparents to take me so I could wander around and practice my tour guide skills. Fuck Planet Hollywood or whatever the kids those days were into - just plop me down with some maps and destruction left by a Volcano blowing off its cone and I was a happy camper. I loved it so much that I one time tattled on an old man who pocketed a piece of pumice in front of me...you DO NOT TAKE PUMICE FROM THE SITE, MY MAN. The Park Ranger was both grateful and a little weirded out my my overzealousness. What I'm saying is, that while I've always loved a good adventure, it's not like I've really had time during my adult life to engage in this behavior.

I actually stumbled across my first trail here in Vermont by accident. Now while I wasn't able to be "out" in nature over the past few years due to work, I did spent what spare time I had in Atlanta and LA taking really, really long drives. I figured out a way to make this happen by outfitting my car with a mobile hotspot, my laptop and portable printer. I truly wish I were joking. I am not. The shit I did to stay "available" was next level mortifying and will haunt me into my next lives, whatever they might be. But, it did enable me to be able to go on some head-clearing drives, which I highly recommend. These drives though Malibu Canyon or up to North Georgia gave me the chance to just think. I challenge you not to work through problems in your head when you have the windows down, REM's "Cuyahoga" blasting and peanut farms in every direction. Now I'm in Vermont and I've started training and boxing in Burlington, which is a 45min drive to and from my house. After a few days on the drive back, I found myself being drawn off the main road and into the hills. The siren song of Autumn in Vermont was too much for me to resist and my desire for meandering drives came roaring back. Once I started chasing leaves I couldn't stop. Then one day I spotted a sign for a waterfall viewing area and almost flipped over my Jeep trying to make the exit. Let me tell you something, I don't care who you are, a really lovely waterfall will make you gasp like a child. It's magical. And one should always stop to view them. Chase the shit out of waterfalls. Fuck, TLC. Once I viewed the loveliness of the waterfall, I just kept waking along the path - I found myself just moving forward. Over fallen branches and puddles and jumping across springs. I had no destination, just this weird urge to keep moving.

And if that's not the best analogy for what I'm doing right now, I'm not sure what is, really. Because, I'd be lying if I said I knew what the future held. Or if the yearning I'm having for being back in LA will pan out. Or if I'll end up here in Vermont forever, throwing maple syrup down my gullet and dating questionable hill-men off Tinder. I have to figure out who I am now, because I'm definitely different than the girl who started in this business 14 years ago. That girl has loved, lost, fought, struggled and given so much of herself to others that I'm not sure the things that still remain. I'm just taking it hike by hike, day by day and moving. Just moving. I walk on unknown trails, unsure of what the destination will be, or if I'll need to turn around and head back to the start. I'm just going. Sometimes, that is the best you can do for the time being. And each day, passing unknown branches of unknown trees who have lived an unknown life to me, I start to come back to myself. I can feel the life slowly creeping back into my bloodstream. Every snowflake and bend of the river whispers to me a forgotten sensation. I may not be taking the type of sabbatical that people would call "sexy", but for me, there is something so incredibly swoon-worthy over a cotton candy sky, freshly fallen snow and the sound of a babbling brook. Thats romance. Thats life.

Of course, it wouldn't be my life if there wasn't some sort of added ridiculousness. I was sitting at brunch a few weeks ago when the server asked me what I did with my free time. I told her I was attempting to write and hiking, and she gasped and said she, "hoped I was wearing something reflective because its hunting season and people have been known to get shot". Another woman who was sitting nearby with her daughter chimed in to say her husband, who was out hunting at that very moment, told her its very serious and people have to be super careful not to be mistaken for a Moose. A MOOSE?! Look, I may not be in the shape I was at 20, but I'm not a MOOSE! A Doe maybe? Bambi's hip older cousin, Skipper? But not a full on fucking MOOSE. All I could think about was what the headline would read, "Area loner killed when mistaken for Moose". I initially ignored their warnings, until a few days later when l I was coming out of the trailhead and saw a truck parked at the road...with two dead-ass deer in the back. They had been hunting in the same woods I had just been stumbling in and not paying attention. I immediately went home and purchased two orange sweaters and a vest (along with some really kicky hiking boots, because if I get shot, I want to look good dying). So I guess I'm just wilderness person now? And that's cool. I'm just praying the Church of the Forrest bestows some sort of divine intervention in my life - be it with a plan or, I suppose, being shot by a handsome hunter who nurses me back to health (fucks me) and I end up moving to his farm with him after he becomes an outspoken gun control advocate.

Either of those will work for me.