Have you heard most television advertisers are pulling their commercials off the air on September 11th? If not, now you know. Guess who gets to fill the boundless void of airtime they're leaving.

So we're having dozens of people into the station to talk about their thoughts on the attacks and how things have changed in the last year. We're taping the interviews and will edit them into 30 and 60 second spots that will run the week of the 11th.

As we cold-called random people to ask them to participate, it was interesting how we made sure we had a good demographic mix. "We have a white female police officer... and we're working on an male Muslim doctor." Funny how the process of being politically correct isn't always very politically correct.

And it's been depressing.
My point in all this being that I've been doing a lot of the interviews. And it's been depressing. Not that the interviewees weren't good. It's just that thinking about everything that happened has me back in a brooding (well, more brooding) mood like I was in the months after the attacks. And it has me second-guessing my plans for this trip again.

The feeling passed the first time, and several times after that. So I assume it'll pass again. I'm not sure why I have these thoughts. I know traveling is no less safe now than it was last summer. I know my chances of returning to gainful employment when I'm back are the same as ever. But for some reason, thinking about September 11th takes me out of the let's-drop-everything-and-go-travel-around-the-world mindset.

There's some encouragement to be had from an article in Sunday's Chicago Tribune. A friend pointed it out today and Terry apparently beat me to re-posting it, but it's a good read. It is, of course, ©2002 The Chicago Tribune and is reprinted here without one bit of authorization.

The most difficult journey lies within
By Lauren Cabell.
Lauren Cabell left her job as an assistant graphics editor at the Chicago Tribune this summer to travel the world


Wedged among the postcards and Dilbert cartoons on the bulletin board above my desk at home is a torn slip of paper with a quote from American author Henry Miller: Voyages are accomplished inwardly, and the most hazardous ones, needless to say, are made without moving from the spot.

Over and over in the past several months I've turned to that quote--and many others pinned near it--as I tackled a most perilous voyage of indecision, fearfully plugged to the spot as I considered two choices:

Stay in my comfortable, well-paying job. Live happily in a wonderful house. Enjoy my fabulous friends and this dear city.

Or, leave everything: responsibility, stability, a reliable income, a hot shower each morning. Toss my mountain bike and golf clubs in the back of my Jeep and head west. Then strap on a backpack and hiking boots and sneak off to New Zealand. And Turkey. And Uruguay. And dozens of places in between.

Thinking about leaving is easy. Having the guts to do it is not.

All of the excuses that are so easy for most 30-somethings to make don't exist for me. I have no mortgage. No marriage. No children. I have no dog, no cat, no outstanding debt, no commitments, no moral obligations, no court orders restricting travel across state lines. I have saved a little money to boot.

A few words from Voltaire soothes the second-guessing: Doubt is an uncomfortable condition, but certainty is a ridiculous one. It doesn't help, however, to read the cautions of Dogen, the Zen master who says: Do not travel far to other dusty lands, forsaking your own sitting place; if you cannot find the truth where you are now, you will never find it. Many friends are convinced that I'm traveling in search of something, whether it's inner peace, a soul mate, God or great pad thai. But I don't look at my plan to roam for a year as a quest to find myself. I intend to lose myself--in classic novels, in winding mountain trails, in the company of strangers and new friends.

Reactions to news of my departure ranged from shock to delight to unfettered enthusiasm. Most universal was the response, with a faraway look and an envious sigh, "Oh, I wish I could do that too." And I would share with everyone who ever has thought of slipping away for a few months the same words Mississippi writer Eudora Welty shares with me: All serious daring starts from within.

The most difficult part of the journey, I suspect, already has been made.

A fear of irreparable regret finally brought the hazardous, inward voyage to an end. That, and a slip of paper with a quote from Joseph Campbell, a one-word directive so bold in its invitation and so decisive in its simplicity:

Jump.