I popped over to the West side of the Northern Cascades yesterday.
Blinded by the sun, nearly, as I squinted up at the toothy peaks of this range.
A sharp intake of breath now,
the residue of winter clinging
to a handful of valleys,
twisting white in the summer air.
I turned and floated my way down to Diablo Lake:
cool blue drink, pebbled soul, whisky warm wind.
I stood by the lake edge and pondered on why I love traveling so well. I do a lot of it! I hop in my truck and I go. I pack the dogs, a pair of jeans and my fly rod and I take myself places. But I also love my home. I miss it, the quiet space that lies inside my 102 year old farmhouse walls. My books. My herbal tea collection. The sound of the breeze in the grapevines…
I think I travel to free myself from the things that find their way inside me.
I travel to get back to the core of myself.
To rest. To recover. To pour myself out. To be filled up again.
To see friends and family; to be in their care.
To take moments at the edge of lakes, beneath the boughs of trees, under the wings of eagles; to rise up, to descend.
To wade through all of those emotions I’ve stored up, to cure those little heart bruises inflicted by the carelessness of others,
to understand the world around me and to be in it and part of it.
To feel space.
I’m just:
Another organism.
Another soul.
Another truck on the highway.
One more girl with her windows down and the breeze in her hair.
To collect a nest.
To inspect a fish.
To feel the sun.
To call the wind.
To trip and fall and get up again.
Do you travel for the same reasons?
Do you travel at all?
To test the water.
To be tested by the water.
Today, all is full.
Full of love.
