I fly out to Singapore next week.
It is, quite possibly, the first time in my life that I’ve ever dreaded traveling—that I’ve ever dreaded leaving home.
And this is Singapore, for crying out loud, a city-state that I did once call home.
But it can’t be helped. I have a child now—the studio—and I…just don’t want to go.
The irony is that I’m leaving for this particular child’s sake. (If this is the heart-wrenching dilemma that overseas contract workers constantly face, my sympathy for them grows a hundred-fold.) You leave for the sake of what you love, yet you can’t bear to leave because of what you love.
If there’s any consolation, it’s that no compulsion remains to explore Singapore’s attractions (though new ones have sprouted since my permanent resident status expired). This means that apart from the hours I need to spend in my Yin Yoga teacher training, I can literally hole up in my friends’ apartment.
Because, yes, I really don’t want to go around the city either. Much of this has to do with the fact that Singapore represents a life and a lifestyle that I chose to leave—but which nevertheless exercise an irresistible allure. (If this is the life-long temptation that people with addictions perpetually battle, my compassion for them expands a hundred-fold.)
The massive amount of resistance this trip is generating is a perfect indication that the time is right for me to go.