"A journey is a person in itself; no two are alike...We find after years of struggle that we do not take a trip; a trip takes us." - John Steinbeck, Travels with Charley
I haven't picked up a camera or written anything in almost 6 months. My last blog postings were about two events that happened to me a few weeks apart. First, I lost my little Abba - my canine companion of almost 14 years. And while I was still in the throes of early grief over that loss, I was victimized by a sophisticated cybercriminal operation, resulting in the loss of 20 years of my digital lifespan - music, books, digital data. Those two events broke me. And my previous creative outlets - writing and photography - just couldn't patch me up the way they had always been able to in the past.
It's not like I haven't been broken before. Life is messy. Most people I know are broken. And all of us eventually pick up the pieces and go on breathing.
The poet L. R. Knost writes:
Life is amazing.
and then it's awful.
And then it's amazing again.
And in between the amazing
and awful it's ordinary
and mundane and routine.
Breathe in the amazing,
hold on through the awful,
and relax and exhale during the ordinary.
That's just living, heartbreaking,
soul-healing, amazing, awful
ordinary life.
And it's
breathtakingly beautiful.
Or, as Leonard Cohen, the legendary Canadian poet, says, "There's a crack in everything, that's how the light gets in."
"A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step." - Lao Tzu
I couldn't turn to my usual pursuits to bail me out so I turned instead to my nomadic instincts. The desire to go off-leash has been with me since I was a small child. That desire becomes almost obsessive when I'm out of sync - either confused or uncertain or in grief. So, I bundled up Jackson, my little Shih Tzu who is a great camping companion, and I hit the road. You don't outrun grief. You carry it, seatbelted beside you, watching the world blur until the sharpness softens.
And the sharpness does always soften. That's the thing about grief. It doesn't go away but it does soften. As hard as it was to lose my little Abba, the loss of my own digital being was an even greater loss. So, Jackson and I hit the road and lo and behold! I started finding pieces of myself scattered across strange cities and landscapes. My traveling allowed me to reconstruct myself.
Solo travel provides so many benefits but they are not always readily apparent. Traveling back roads - which is my preferred route most times - in a camper van is almost guaranteed to present problems. My home is hurdling down the road, bouncing and jouncing. Things fall and break, weather happens, plans go awry. There have been times when I've cried tears of frustration and helplessness, times when I've questioned myself and longed for the security of my sticks and bricks. But I've also learned to face detours without panic and I've made last minute decisions without second opinions. And every problem solved has given me proof that I can do hard things - and keep going {smile}. Resilience isn't something you pack; it's something you earn, one uncertain mile at a time. When I started doing things that I wasn't sure I could do - the world rearranged itself. What used to feel impossible just became the next challenge. I started embracing discomfort and seeing setbacks as part of the process, not failures. I started trusting myself more than my fears. And that perspective about how a journey unfolds is now something I'm applying to how my life unfolds.
So, I'm turning back to my usual creative outlets, writing and photography, and combining that with my love for the open road. And I promise to be a bit more consistent about my blogging. But the focus of my future posts is going to be on the reflections of a silver haired matriarch on the art of wandering late in life, the stories of the people I've met, the landscapes - both urban and rural - of my own country.
I do so hope you will come along with me for the ride!
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