No Man Is An Island

Wednesday 27th January 2010, 9.50am, Bus to Luang Prabang

I have spoken a lot about goodbyes over the past 2 months. From that very first goodbye when we left Koh Phangan and with watery eyes and heavy hearts had to bid farewell to some very dear friends, I have known that this would always be my travelling Achilles' Heel. Since then my heart has been arrow-punctured all over with holes left by the absence of people who filled it so completely when they were with me. When you are constantly on the move as I have been, when places and not people are the priority, you have to be ready to accept the consequences of putting yourself and your itinerary first. Every time you gain a friend, the foreboding shadow of loss places it's hand on your shoulder, preparing you for the inevitability of separation. Having already this morning very sadly waved off Greg and Rich, two fantastic travelling accomplices for the past 9 days, today then brought the hardest goodbye of all.

Way back at the beginning of December (which feels about 2 years ago now), we met a guy called Dan who had just completed a 10 day meditation course at a monastery in Surat Thani, 11 hours South of Bangkok on the West coast of the Thai Gulf. Ella took a keen interest in this and after pummelling Dan for information decided that this would be something she would like to do later on in our trip. We subsequently found out that the course only runs for the first 10 days of each month, she settled on February, and so we have been aware for quite a while now that Ella would need to be back down South by January 31st to register for the programme. Knowing this and living this have been two very different things though. For the past few days I have been having some very disturbing and anxious dreams - running through war zones, getting lost in Vietnamese countryside and no one knowing where I am, returning to England to find nobody speaks English anymore and only people I've met travelling can understand me - could this be my subconscious illustrating my fear of losing her?!

I, unsurprisingly enough, did not fancy the prospect of 10 days sleeping on a stone bed, eating 2 vegan meals a day, learning to achieve spiritual enlightenment through meditation and yoga, being woken up by monks at 4am, and worst of all: NOT BEING ALLOWED TO TALK! I find silence difficult for 10 minutes and can also frequently be caught nattering away to myself/animals/inanimate objects. I would be banished in disrepute from the monastery in no time at all, probably for singing in the shower or chatting to a chicken or pondering out loud 'where did I put you camera charger, come on little charger, show yourself please!'. Therefore, my inability to stay quiet and behave myself and Ella's desire for rest, recuperation and reflection have meant that we have been forced to separate.

We've known for weeks that this day has been on the horizon and yet now we've sailed our boat to it I feel unprepared and unable to cope. She walked me to my bus this morning and we managed to hold it together, but just now as I took my seat I was fishing in my bag only to find that she had stashed a letter in there for me. This stow away has now brought on the tears I managed to fight whilst gripping her to me at the bus station. She offers love and thanks and regret at our separation, and then the most creative and thoughtful surprise, she has devised a wordsearch for me. The questions on various experiences, people and private jokes from the past 2 months, the answers only I would know.

I am filled with trepidation this morning. I feel like my right arm has been cut off, it's a wonder I'm even able to write. I'm excited and hopeful that the meditation course brings her all the fulfilment and peace she expects of it, and I'm excited for me too - branching off alone to explore more of Laos and Northern Thailand, but this goodbye leaves a gap incomparable to other partings. I must remember that it's not forever though, in 3 weeks we will be reunited in Malaysia, I'll have my arm back, my sidekick, my crutch, my rock, my wing-man, and we will have so many new stories to share with each other. It seems unthinkable now that 10 weeks before we came away we had yet to meet, I was intent on embarking upon this huge feat by myself, and she hadn't even bought a plane ticket.

My upset at this situation this morning has led me to think about the human condition of need, more specifically, of needing other human beings. It is frightening how quickly you can become dependent on another person, how a recent stranger can suddenly become vital, how we can fall in love with someone we meet at a party and then spend a sleepless fortnight praying they'll call, how we so desperately rely on each other for our happiness, and how precariously these relationships begin to hang in the balance when we take each other for granted. Some people claim they are immune to these feelings, but I'm afraid I will never believe anyone who tells me that they don't need other people to love, and as importantly, for that love to be reciprocated. People who love you but tell you they don't need you are only trying to protect themselves against the agony of loss.

Of course I'm no longer just talking about my lovely Ella, but for this morning at least it is her that I openly admit to needing and missing. Need is not shameful nor pathetic nor childish, need is not a weakness, it is human, and a testament to our unique and enviable capacity for love, compassion and friendship. A few friends of mine have all happened to e-mail me recently for any words of wisdom or advice I might have on their recent relationship dilemmas, and this morning it has just occurred to me what I should unanimously and dogmatically be telling them. As John Donne rightly said, 'no man is an island'. Do not trust anyone who is prouder of their isolation than they are that someone as wonderful as you might be able to love them. Most days, you needing me, well that's all I'm proud of.

See you soon Ells Bells, I hope you got the message too. x