A Maple, an Octopus, and Everyone else I Pestered About My Future

Week 8: The one about my totally unreliable study of dreams and my friends’ impressive WhatsApp speed

For the next ten weeks, I’m letting go of control to see where trust and curiosity might take me. This week finds me in the same Swiss mountain village, my supply of dreams officially depleted. Follow along as I assemble a digital fellowship of three wise WhatsApp responders to help me figure out where on earth I’m going next.

“What are you hoping happens in the next few months?” Her question slices through my chest with surgical precision. Irina patiently waits for me to reply. I hear her quiet breathing on the other end of the line as I anxiously look for answers in the alpine trees surrounding me.

“I, uh... I’m excited for autumn weather?” I mumble, as if that’s a real response. The red maple beside me gets a grateful nod for moral support. I know I won’t get away with it. Irina is immune to both bullshit and charm, even the leafy kind. She doesn’t do small talk; mention the weather, and she’ll counter with immigration policy or your latest therapy session. She can down vodka like it’s water and laughs at my crude jokes with the most glorious cackle. I adore her. But right now, I’d rather make small talk with the maple than face the question I know is coming.

“Babe, come on. Is that really all? Have you not thought about where you’ll live once you’re done traveling? What about work?” Her voice is equal parts worry and disbelief. I sigh, the question marks jumping from my phone tug at my carefully built armor of evasion.

“I have no clue,” I confess. “When I think beyond a day or two, all I see is fog. No answers, no desires, nothing.”

She replies in a uncharacteristically soft tone, masking her worry, “I’m sure you’ll find something. Maybe you just need some more time.” I nod, and realise I’m in deep shit.

For the past eight weeks, I’ve loudly proclaimed that surrender is not a synonym for passivity. No, no, my dear mortals, it’s ancient Chinese philosophy. It's about flowing like water, to stop resisting and to bow out of the futile fight with control, gracefully. Yet I’ve become princess passivity herself, trapped between my past and future in a gray no-man’s-land I can’t seem to escape.

That night, I start searching for a way forward, a smidge of hope, a trace of desire, a vague outline of a dream. I used to be a “bloodhound”, I remind myself as I pour yet another glass of Rowan’s Creek. But there’s no scent. I’m chasing my own tale.

I decide to seek counsel. Meaning, I ambush several unsuspecting victims on WhatsApp with the following text: “Do you have big dreams for your life?”

Gilles is the first to reply. We met on the Camino, 400 kilometers before Santiago de Compostela. He was charming in that infuriating French way; curious, tall, articulate, intelligent, convincingly arrogant, yet nurturing a remarkable amount of self-doubt.

“Homework,” he texts. “Watch My Octopus Teacher.”

“Is that the one where the guy’s in love with an octopus?” I ask.

“Yes.”

The schoolgirl in me must have survived, because I do as I’m told. When I ask for a central question, he fires back: “You have to write about how you felt about the movie.” I reply with appropriate horror and punctuation. “Feelings????” Before I can even press play, another message lights up my screen.

Craig, the man I compare all my dates to, the embodiment of reason, calm, and quiet wisdom wrapped in the body of a Scottish rugby fan, has answered my siren call.

“Well that depends.” he writes. “We talking professional dreams or personal dreams?”

Jackpot.

I quickly reply: “Can I ask for both? Be greedy?”
What follows is a list of dreams so thoughtful, vulnerable yet manageable, I find myself feeling equal parts inspired and jealous. “Always remember,” he adds, “they’re dreams, not deadlines. No pressure to meet them.”

No pressure? The concept short-circuits my brain. Three dots blink, then another message appears. “Did I think I’d be in a relationship by now? Probably. Am I worried that I’m not? Not in the slightest.”

Here I am, needing years of therapy and countless scientific articles to understand self-compassion. And then there is Craig, well-balanced, kind, joyful Craig, just embodying the whole thing. Born that way, as Gaga would belt. My fingertips hover over the keyboard. “How do you do it, Craig? How do you make your brain seem like such a kind, fun place to live?”

His reply confirms what I already knew. “Genuinely, I’ve just been this way as long as I can remember,” I tell Craig I’m violently jealous yet very chuffed for his inner peace before exhaling in defeat. So far, the data fits neatly into two groups: invertebrates and God’s favorites. I belong to neither. A notification pops up. It reads: “No, I never have any big dreams.”

Lotta has entered the dataset. The woman with whom I cosplayed a sexless lesbian relationship for the last two years of my undergrad. My all-time favorite Swede, now the owner of several chickens and one very fast-cycling fiancée. I wait anxiously for her to keep typing.

She types in bursts: “I follow my nose. I do what sounds fun. I’m a long-term optimist who believes everything will work itself out.”

I stare in amazement at her unflinching trust. I joke about the life coaching seminars she must be running to reach this level of enlightenment. “It’s evidence-based,” she replies. “So far, nothing catastrophic has happened. Even when life gets low with loss or illness, everything has somehow still worked out.”

After profusely thanking my digital fellowship, I take out a blank piece of paper and sketch out the survey results: compassion from the Zen Scotsman, trust from the enlightened Swede, and a sea creature from the French philosopher. That damn octopus. What does she have to say?

Begurdingly, I hit play.

This time, it wasn’t the odd affair between tentacle and white male that drew my attention, but the human behind the fetish: a man who had lost his life’s purpose and returned to his childhood love of the ocean to restore the self he had lost along the way. He didn’t enter the ice-cold, rugged sea seeking answers. He simply floated, day after day, until curiosity brought him to her. No expectations, just persistence and presence.

Is this what Gilles is trying to tell me? That the fog isn’t meant to be solved, only observed; that being present can be enough, curiosity can serve as a compass, and floating, however uncertain, still counts as movement. Maybe it’s simply about stopping the splashing and letting something drift toward me.

When Irina’s question echoes again, “What are you hoping happens in the next few months?” I finally feel the stirrings of an answer. Not a plan. Not a map. Not a set of measurable goals. Just this: I hope to notice. To stay curious. To float. To maybe, just maybe, learn something from the strange, wonderful creatures drifting in the currents around me.