Home goes too.

We sailed out of the northeast with hopes set high, smiles that reached from ear to ear as we pounded down highway, mile after mile.
We reached Lubbock still rolling, or at least my wheels were. New Mexico seemed so close!
And then it began to seem so far away.
By the time the news came back that our tax return had been filed with my last named misspelled as STARnroft and was now tied up somewhere in the hovering cloud of tax return checks, my wheels had already slowed down considerably. The friend that we were visiting was leaving town for two weeks, his sweet dog Aslan needed a sitter, and we needed somewhere to stay until the beginning of August when we would need to head back for previously scheduled family vacations. It's a matter of perspective, but I'd like to think that while He may laugh at our plans, He always provides.
New Mexico is waiting patiently for us until September, or rather us for it, when traveling and cruises and camping is over. We had to leave a lot behind in this moving process, but I realized there are some things you always take with you. Music and love and talks and even smells. Home goes too, you just have to make space for it where you can. I've been finding it in the cradle of one man's arms.

72

We’ve been on the road now for three days—hours filled with blaring sun and dry, scorching heat. A thunderstorm loomed overhead in Memphis, but save for a few errant drops that fell on our walk to Beale St., the dark clouds remained a hazy backdrop for the city of blues. We sat at one of the bars, our table extending out onto the brick pavement where hoards of revelers stood in awe of street performers. Front flips, black flips, handsprings and solid dance moves performed by three African American boys held most of the glory, all perfectly timed to the blues music that poured out of the nearest bar. Half-drunk, I took it all in, glorious in the knowledge that at that moment, I could simply be. As a stranger in a strange land, I floated above the concerns of daily interaction.
Just dance, River encouraged when I shied away from joining a group of girls on the dance floor later in the night. It was a 21st birthday party and the girlfriends were having a blast. From our table,my body ached to move like theirs. You’ll never see these people again.
One of the girls noticed me grooving in my seat and threw a welcoming smile in my direction. Without a second's beat, I slid forward in time to the music. He was right. I was whoever I wanted to be, I could do whatever I wanted to. Living had never felt so good.

East Meets West

It’s rogue. It is undeniably wild, a tumbleweed blowing across a hot grainy sky. The wilderness has been calling, the great American spirit.

I wrote these lines a few months ago, in the cold silence of a northeast snowstorm. As the snow whipped hollowly around my words, I was then completely unaware of the fact that I would soon be hearing that call, and echoing it back. As it stands as of today June 19, 2010, my husband River and I are headed west—to Albuquerque, New Mexico—in exactly two weeks. Most of our furniture has been sold, our roommate (River’s once college professor turned friend turned roommate) has moved out, and we have begun the mental moving in of a lifestyle far different from the one we’ve known. Gone are most of the luxuries of life, having to cram our entire existence, and one small gray cat named Ting, into the back of our Honda Civic. Most of the clothes that I held so dear have been sold to consignment shops, each dollar squirreled away for when we hit the road. My excitement lies somewhere in the hazy fog of deep anticipation and the expansive unknown.