The Beginning
CHAPTERS
THE INVITATION
A POLAR VORTEX
BURNING FEET
A POLAR VORTEX
BURNING FEET
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THE INVITATION
A year ago. Colorado. It is the end of a women’s yoga retreat. I don’t know anyone at the start but six days later I am nude and riddled with laughter as my breasts bounce, pivot and smack against my sweaty skin. They are flopping so wildly it’s possible they’ll fly right off, but I don’t care a bit what it looks like. I am in ecstasy. I know I am meant to be dancing, singing and crying together with these women. It fits, it feels right and I feel overwhelming gratitude for having invested myself in this game-changing week.
As my body lay in prostration on the tile floor, cooling down after a night of devotional dance, I am not seeking an answer. My mind is full of white light and the cold ground melts into a soft embrace. It feels like being held by my mother when I was a little girl and she’d stroke my hair humming me to sleep. Tears descend and a smile grows in my chest. And I hear, “Take a walk.”
So, I do. Immediately. I stand up and begin walking the circular two-mile path around the retreat just as it strikes midnight. I walk slowly, each step deliberate, listening to the crunch of leaves under my feet. I haven’t done much night walking before, so if it weren’t for being sandwiched between a Zen center and a Hindu temple, my heebie jeebies about things that go bump in the night might have convinced me to stay indoors on the dance floor.
As it happens, I walk, and under the Southwest sky, the landscape turns from an evergreen desert to a wet-logged forest. I see African boab trees and Mount Everest. There are Mongolian yurts next to the temples of Angkor Wat. I am walking around the world at midnight in Colorado.
A week earlier, I had come to the retreat with a question. What am I supposed to be doing with my life?Although I felt content with my current circumstances, I craved to know what it could feel like to have absolutely no doubt that I was doing what I was born to do. I wanted to wake up every morning with a YES in my body–a lust for life. If I knew that feeling, I would devote myself to it. I would risk everything for it.
As I walked the circle of the retreat center, my initial response was a joy that crept like Ivy from my belly up to the crown of my head and out my fingers and toes. I began running with all the energy and aliveness moving inside me. I was cackling like a wild witch (a tactic I would later learn could be useful to ward off certain company). I could feel the air and all the forest beasts celebrating with me that I had found it. It was the discovery of what I needed to do: Go walking.
It didn’t make any logical sense to me (and still doesn’t) but my job is not to make sense of it. It’s learning to trust in what I feel is true for me. And of course, there are justifiable fears–persistently provoked and supported by family and friends who thought I was experiencing an early mid-life crisis–of the horrible things that can happen to a woman walking and camping alone on the side of a road somewhere or in the middle of nowhere. And I was frightened by the thought of all that I would have to leave behind to embark on a journey that would take at least five years to complete.
Though as strong a force as that fear was, I could not come up with enough excuses to play hooky on this one. When I said YES to walking around the world, everything changed for me. I began fully trusting in every step. Now that I have crossed Oregon and Australia on foot, I know that I have to trust every step. It can mean life or death to panic and ignore my gut instinct.
My average distance is twenty miles a day but on this night in Western Australia, I am painfully approaching the forty-mile marker. I am no longer walking as much as I am kicking my legs forward, hoping they’d land in front of me to keep carrying me ahead. I am searching for a place to sleep.
I have to stop and lie down to raise my feet towards the sky and recirculate the blood. My ankles are beginning to swell along with tears of frustration.
The Australian outback is comprised of wide-open spaces and occasional clumps of grass. So when the heat becomes too strong at midday, I begin walking in the cool of night. But this evening, I hit a long stretch of tall golden grass on all sides of me, which is home to some of the world’s most poisonous snakes. Walking into waist-high grass is about as scary as plunging into shark-infested water off the plank of a ship. I am desperate for a flat, open area to pitch my tent, crawl in and cry my sore and swollen body to sleep.
I find a spot to rest but it is too dangerous to camp here. My feet are in the air. I’m lying on my back. And if you can’t tell it’s coming, well, I am feeling sorry for myself. I feel stupid for being in such an inhospitable place all by my lonesome, incapable of finding a place just to sleep for a few hours.
I am getting a crash course on doubt. Not that doubt is a new feeling for me but I had thought that perhaps when I was living my purpose, doubt would have melted like cotton candy on a rainy day. It is still here and it takes a little more wailing like a kid mid-tantrum before the tears dry and the view of the night sky behind my feet wraps around me like a shawl. The drone of cicadas in the distance hums a calming stillness in my heart.
I breathe the glistening stars and the vast emptiness around them into my body and whisper several times: I am following. I trust you.
As I roll onto my side and push myself up for the next mile, a reflective strip catches the glow of my headlamp. I limp toward it and tucked behind a thicket of trees is a narrow path leading to a sandpit the size of a football field. I look up at the sky and smile, “That was quick.”
Under the stars, in my sleeping bag, on a football field sized sandpit, alone somewhere in the Australian outback, I cry myself to sleep, but the tears are not self-doubt induced. They are the magical satisfaction that I am exactly where I need to be and that has always been the case.
As my body lay in prostration on the tile floor, cooling down after a night of devotional dance, I am not seeking an answer. My mind is full of white light and the cold ground melts into a soft embrace. It feels like being held by my mother when I was a little girl and she’d stroke my hair humming me to sleep. Tears descend and a smile grows in my chest. And I hear, “Take a walk.”
So, I do. Immediately. I stand up and begin walking the circular two-mile path around the retreat just as it strikes midnight. I walk slowly, each step deliberate, listening to the crunch of leaves under my feet. I haven’t done much night walking before, so if it weren’t for being sandwiched between a Zen center and a Hindu temple, my heebie jeebies about things that go bump in the night might have convinced me to stay indoors on the dance floor.
As it happens, I walk, and under the Southwest sky, the landscape turns from an evergreen desert to a wet-logged forest. I see African boab trees and Mount Everest. There are Mongolian yurts next to the temples of Angkor Wat. I am walking around the world at midnight in Colorado.
A week earlier, I had come to the retreat with a question. What am I supposed to be doing with my life?Although I felt content with my current circumstances, I craved to know what it could feel like to have absolutely no doubt that I was doing what I was born to do. I wanted to wake up every morning with a YES in my body–a lust for life. If I knew that feeling, I would devote myself to it. I would risk everything for it.
As I walked the circle of the retreat center, my initial response was a joy that crept like Ivy from my belly up to the crown of my head and out my fingers and toes. I began running with all the energy and aliveness moving inside me. I was cackling like a wild witch (a tactic I would later learn could be useful to ward off certain company). I could feel the air and all the forest beasts celebrating with me that I had found it. It was the discovery of what I needed to do: Go walking.
It didn’t make any logical sense to me (and still doesn’t) but my job is not to make sense of it. It’s learning to trust in what I feel is true for me. And of course, there are justifiable fears–persistently provoked and supported by family and friends who thought I was experiencing an early mid-life crisis–of the horrible things that can happen to a woman walking and camping alone on the side of a road somewhere or in the middle of nowhere. And I was frightened by the thought of all that I would have to leave behind to embark on a journey that would take at least five years to complete.
Though as strong a force as that fear was, I could not come up with enough excuses to play hooky on this one. When I said YES to walking around the world, everything changed for me. I began fully trusting in every step. Now that I have crossed Oregon and Australia on foot, I know that I have to trust every step. It can mean life or death to panic and ignore my gut instinct.
My average distance is twenty miles a day but on this night in Western Australia, I am painfully approaching the forty-mile marker. I am no longer walking as much as I am kicking my legs forward, hoping they’d land in front of me to keep carrying me ahead. I am searching for a place to sleep.
I have to stop and lie down to raise my feet towards the sky and recirculate the blood. My ankles are beginning to swell along with tears of frustration.
The Australian outback is comprised of wide-open spaces and occasional clumps of grass. So when the heat becomes too strong at midday, I begin walking in the cool of night. But this evening, I hit a long stretch of tall golden grass on all sides of me, which is home to some of the world’s most poisonous snakes. Walking into waist-high grass is about as scary as plunging into shark-infested water off the plank of a ship. I am desperate for a flat, open area to pitch my tent, crawl in and cry my sore and swollen body to sleep.
I find a spot to rest but it is too dangerous to camp here. My feet are in the air. I’m lying on my back. And if you can’t tell it’s coming, well, I am feeling sorry for myself. I feel stupid for being in such an inhospitable place all by my lonesome, incapable of finding a place just to sleep for a few hours.
I am getting a crash course on doubt. Not that doubt is a new feeling for me but I had thought that perhaps when I was living my purpose, doubt would have melted like cotton candy on a rainy day. It is still here and it takes a little more wailing like a kid mid-tantrum before the tears dry and the view of the night sky behind my feet wraps around me like a shawl. The drone of cicadas in the distance hums a calming stillness in my heart.
I breathe the glistening stars and the vast emptiness around them into my body and whisper several times: I am following. I trust you.
As I roll onto my side and push myself up for the next mile, a reflective strip catches the glow of my headlamp. I limp toward it and tucked behind a thicket of trees is a narrow path leading to a sandpit the size of a football field. I look up at the sky and smile, “That was quick.”
Under the stars, in my sleeping bag, on a football field sized sandpit, alone somewhere in the Australian outback, I cry myself to sleep, but the tears are not self-doubt induced. They are the magical satisfaction that I am exactly where I need to be and that has always been the case.
A POLAR VORTEX
Huskies pulling sleds. Michelin Man looking suits and tennis-racket shoes. Frost encrusted eyelashes under a fur-trimmed cowl. Even if I had to survive on seal blubber, the idea of a polar expedition always seemed enticing.
But once I experienced walking in northern New Mexico for three days in slightly freezing temperatures and just a little snow, I questioned my desire to learn survival skills in the arctic.
I’ve never been a very practical person but since I was about to embark on an extremely ambitious adventure, research coupled with some field-testing seemed imperative.
I was in luck. A man who had walked twenty thousand miles was currently crossing the South West of the US. Just a few states away from my home but a long plane ride, a hitchhike and a bus ride later, I was meeting up with him to pick his experienced brain and get a taste of being on the road.
I made it to the restaurant, the only one on the outskirts of the Jicarilla Apache reservation. Although I was determined to walk the full six miles from bus stop to café, the sun was setting and I didn’t want to miss Karl’s nighttime routine. I was there to learn the tricks of camping along the roadside, especially how to set up camp in the dark.
An elderly couple stopped to see if I needed a ride. I normally don’t like hitchhiking but with night approaching I gladly accepted. I crunched between distended garbage bags and boxes of discarded batteries. It appeared that they had very little; even their gas tank was close to empty. I began thinking they might ask for money so I quietly pulled out my wallet and began searching for a few dollars.
I heard change rattling in the front seat while they began a conversation.
“We’re driving up to see our son. The only way we can pay for gas is selling aluminum at recycling factories.”
As I opened my mouth to offer a few dollars in exchange for their generosity, the woman turned to face me with a fist full of change.
“We won’t get far unless we can help out another. Now open your hand”
Feeling obliged but resistant to taking any money from them, I held my palm out and with a smile she gave me several dollars with of quarters.
When we reached the café Karl was waiting in, the elderly man insisted on carrying my bag inside. So I insisted they join me for a cup of coffee.
I had bought them a plate of fish and fries before they left.
Left alone to truly meet for the first time, Karl and I began going through the cordial conversation of “So, why are you walking?”
After some tortillas and a beer, I inquired, “Well, the sun is almost down. We probably need to set up camp before it gets too dark, right?”
Grabbing the handles of my enormously packed hiking bag, his eyebrows raise as he responds, “Are you joking? It’s negative 13 degrees (Celsius) out there. We’re in the middle of a polar vortex and unless you want to have a polar expedition in the desert of North Mexico, we’re staying in here till this place closes.”
I didn’t respond with my long-term dream of trekking across the arctic (besides we were short the huskies) and I plopped back down in my chair, ordered another beer and asked every question I could about what it’s like to walk around the world.
After I picked through how many pairs of pants he carries, what he eats for energy, and if he’d ever been assaulted in his tent (which is yes, in Columbia, and instead of being arrested he was offered shots of vodka) we moved on to a more personal subject; Love and relationships.
“Are you in a relationship?” he asked while sipping red wine. Beer gives him a headache.
“Yes, and I think we can make it through the time and distance.” I put on my ultra confident face even though my boyfriend and I had already entered the conversation of it not feeling right to stay together. We wouldn’t make the decision to sever the relationship until months later.
Karl gave a huff as kindly as he could and said, “Right, well good luck with that. It won’t last.”
“We’re different and it’s worth giving it a try.” That was all I could muster to his sour outlook.
“I was in love. I met her while walking in Cuba. I stayed with her for months as we tried to get her a Visa into Mexico. She was going to walk with me. Months and many lawyers later it was looking impossible. Our hearts were stronger than the borders. So I made the decision to smuggle her in.”
I was starting to see the emotional challenge that a walk so grand as his, and one I was planning on doing, can do to the attached heart. The sadness seeped from his mouth and loneliness was dancing in his eyes.
Noticing him trying to change the subject, I ordered him another Pinot Noir and found the courage to ask, “What happened. Where is she?”
“The afternoon we were packed and ready, waiting for nightfall to make our move, we had lunch at a café. A television was playing a documentary about the Mexican police arresting illegal immigrant girls and holding them captive for sexual purposes in the prisons. Angela, I was about to take a woman I loved illegally into a territory that was targeting her. I couldn’t live with the idea that her love for me could have condemned her to sexual servitude. So, we said goodbye at that café.”
The moment I saw an emotional curvature in his face he managed to change the subject and we began plowing through itineraries and equipment.
The first night in the tent was my reality check. I could hear cars passing just fifty feet from our camp and not a single bush to block the headlights. I think Karl is fast asleep as I begin a silent sob. I don’t want him to hear me. I felt weak, exhausted and disheartened as I lay in my cold tent on a yoga mat and a sleeping bag for cool autumn evenings. My toes felt frozen and tucked in a fetal posture. I covered my head with my jacket and fell into a light sleep to the rhythm of my warm breath.
Two days and twenty-six miles later, the sun is rising and I can hear his stove warming up. I stretch, and every muscle responds with a scowl and one calf throws a tantrum. I roll out of the tent, mainly because I can’t stand, and take a closer look at six fluid-filled blisters. I wrap them and find that my shoes are now too small for my newly swollen feet.
I took the insoles of my sneakers out and taped them to the soles of my socks. For eleven miles I shuffled in my makeshift slippers. It took me ten hours but at the end of that day I understood two things:
1. A polar expedition must have huskies.
2. If I can walk in socks during a polar vortex, I can walk anywhere.
But once I experienced walking in northern New Mexico for three days in slightly freezing temperatures and just a little snow, I questioned my desire to learn survival skills in the arctic.
I’ve never been a very practical person but since I was about to embark on an extremely ambitious adventure, research coupled with some field-testing seemed imperative.
I was in luck. A man who had walked twenty thousand miles was currently crossing the South West of the US. Just a few states away from my home but a long plane ride, a hitchhike and a bus ride later, I was meeting up with him to pick his experienced brain and get a taste of being on the road.
I made it to the restaurant, the only one on the outskirts of the Jicarilla Apache reservation. Although I was determined to walk the full six miles from bus stop to café, the sun was setting and I didn’t want to miss Karl’s nighttime routine. I was there to learn the tricks of camping along the roadside, especially how to set up camp in the dark.
An elderly couple stopped to see if I needed a ride. I normally don’t like hitchhiking but with night approaching I gladly accepted. I crunched between distended garbage bags and boxes of discarded batteries. It appeared that they had very little; even their gas tank was close to empty. I began thinking they might ask for money so I quietly pulled out my wallet and began searching for a few dollars.
I heard change rattling in the front seat while they began a conversation.
“We’re driving up to see our son. The only way we can pay for gas is selling aluminum at recycling factories.”
As I opened my mouth to offer a few dollars in exchange for their generosity, the woman turned to face me with a fist full of change.
“We won’t get far unless we can help out another. Now open your hand”
Feeling obliged but resistant to taking any money from them, I held my palm out and with a smile she gave me several dollars with of quarters.
When we reached the café Karl was waiting in, the elderly man insisted on carrying my bag inside. So I insisted they join me for a cup of coffee.
I had bought them a plate of fish and fries before they left.
Left alone to truly meet for the first time, Karl and I began going through the cordial conversation of “So, why are you walking?”
After some tortillas and a beer, I inquired, “Well, the sun is almost down. We probably need to set up camp before it gets too dark, right?”
Grabbing the handles of my enormously packed hiking bag, his eyebrows raise as he responds, “Are you joking? It’s negative 13 degrees (Celsius) out there. We’re in the middle of a polar vortex and unless you want to have a polar expedition in the desert of North Mexico, we’re staying in here till this place closes.”
I didn’t respond with my long-term dream of trekking across the arctic (besides we were short the huskies) and I plopped back down in my chair, ordered another beer and asked every question I could about what it’s like to walk around the world.
After I picked through how many pairs of pants he carries, what he eats for energy, and if he’d ever been assaulted in his tent (which is yes, in Columbia, and instead of being arrested he was offered shots of vodka) we moved on to a more personal subject; Love and relationships.
“Are you in a relationship?” he asked while sipping red wine. Beer gives him a headache.
“Yes, and I think we can make it through the time and distance.” I put on my ultra confident face even though my boyfriend and I had already entered the conversation of it not feeling right to stay together. We wouldn’t make the decision to sever the relationship until months later.
Karl gave a huff as kindly as he could and said, “Right, well good luck with that. It won’t last.”
“We’re different and it’s worth giving it a try.” That was all I could muster to his sour outlook.
“I was in love. I met her while walking in Cuba. I stayed with her for months as we tried to get her a Visa into Mexico. She was going to walk with me. Months and many lawyers later it was looking impossible. Our hearts were stronger than the borders. So I made the decision to smuggle her in.”
I was starting to see the emotional challenge that a walk so grand as his, and one I was planning on doing, can do to the attached heart. The sadness seeped from his mouth and loneliness was dancing in his eyes.
Noticing him trying to change the subject, I ordered him another Pinot Noir and found the courage to ask, “What happened. Where is she?”
“The afternoon we were packed and ready, waiting for nightfall to make our move, we had lunch at a café. A television was playing a documentary about the Mexican police arresting illegal immigrant girls and holding them captive for sexual purposes in the prisons. Angela, I was about to take a woman I loved illegally into a territory that was targeting her. I couldn’t live with the idea that her love for me could have condemned her to sexual servitude. So, we said goodbye at that café.”
The moment I saw an emotional curvature in his face he managed to change the subject and we began plowing through itineraries and equipment.
The first night in the tent was my reality check. I could hear cars passing just fifty feet from our camp and not a single bush to block the headlights. I think Karl is fast asleep as I begin a silent sob. I don’t want him to hear me. I felt weak, exhausted and disheartened as I lay in my cold tent on a yoga mat and a sleeping bag for cool autumn evenings. My toes felt frozen and tucked in a fetal posture. I covered my head with my jacket and fell into a light sleep to the rhythm of my warm breath.
Two days and twenty-six miles later, the sun is rising and I can hear his stove warming up. I stretch, and every muscle responds with a scowl and one calf throws a tantrum. I roll out of the tent, mainly because I can’t stand, and take a closer look at six fluid-filled blisters. I wrap them and find that my shoes are now too small for my newly swollen feet.
I took the insoles of my sneakers out and taped them to the soles of my socks. For eleven miles I shuffled in my makeshift slippers. It took me ten hours but at the end of that day I understood two things:
1. A polar expedition must have huskies.
2. If I can walk in socks during a polar vortex, I can walk anywhere.
BURNING FEET
It began with a brunch at a friend’s house to get coffee and protein inebriated. My friends Elyse and Josh joined me for ten miles the first day. We stood outside of Elyse’s home, did an honoring of the four directions and grabbed each other’s hands as we took the first steps on my world-spanning walk. A few friends hooted and hollered to give a crescendo to the kick-off. Then they headed home to their families while me and my two buddies were going exploring. First stop: Coffee shop.
The first three days I had the luxury of going home. I would tie a cloth around a tree to mark my spot and my boyfriend would pick me up and get up early to drive me to my mile marker the next morning.
I’ve always been a go-big-or-go-home kind of gal so although I had a few long hikes under my belt there was no way for me to know how my physical or emotional body would respond to my walk. I was hoping they would be just as thrilled as I was in my head about it, off to great distant lands with my Indiana Jones hat in tow.
Day two, not only were my feet swollen but so were the pillows under my eyes. And I began the day by shuffling until I could eventually pick my feet up in a full swing-walking gait.
I was wearing the ultra-thin Vibram five-finger shoes that I was convinced were perfect for my long journey. Repetitive kissing of sole to concrete began feeling like a fire was brewing under my feet. The pain initiated a break in every possible river, stream and handy water bottle to soak my feet in cool water. I’d lay with my feet towards the sky and closely investigate the blood running down my legs. For a few moments I’d think I couldn’t get up from that very spot. Like ever. I didn’t want to. If I had a pillow and blanket I could have convinced myself to cozy-up and sleep it through.
I never did. But I always fantasized about it.
The first night truly alone in the woods was magical. I had made it to a National Park that was nestled along the Santiam River. It was just turning into spring and as snow had melted, the surrounding wood was still soaked. I did attempt to start the fire but couldn’t remember what the hell that survival guy on YouTube said to do to start a fire in the rain!
I made a cup-o-noodles and tucked into my sleeping bag with Ann Lamott’s book Bird by Bird.
As little creatures scoured with curiosity around my tent, it felt like I was returning to a place I hadn’t been in a long time, the wilderness.
When I think of the times I’ve gone hiking there’s always people and conversation around, where the focus was on listening to them rather than the sounds of nature.
I hadn’t realized how much I missed and loved the sound of the woods at night. I fell into the cocoon of my surroundings.
The next few days I witnessed some of the most beautiful parts of Oregon. Bend is an arid desert compared to the lush rainforest landscape of the western coast. I began listening less to my music and more to the river that weaved itself beside me.
I was heading to Breitenbush Hot Springs, where ten of my closest friends met me to share on the soaking of mineral-rich water and to say goodbye.
My friend Shireen played Unchained Melody as we huddled on the stone floor of the Buddha dome. My head cuddled on the chest of my boyfriend as my tears soaked into his cotton t-shirt and my hand gripped his arm. My godson climbed over our bodies as we all sang along….
Lonely rivers flow
To the sea, to the sea
To the open arms of the sea
Lonely rivers sigh
"Wait for me, wait for me"
I'll be coming home, wait for me.
I ran my fingers through his hair as he gripped tighter on my wrist.
I wanted to ask him to wait for me.
Instead, I whispered into his neck, “I love you.”
He grazed my face with back of his hand, “Ditto.”
He drove home while I kept walking towards Portland.
I would walk the length of the Great Sandy Desert grieving and learning the ultimate path to freedom: letting go.
The first three days I had the luxury of going home. I would tie a cloth around a tree to mark my spot and my boyfriend would pick me up and get up early to drive me to my mile marker the next morning.
I’ve always been a go-big-or-go-home kind of gal so although I had a few long hikes under my belt there was no way for me to know how my physical or emotional body would respond to my walk. I was hoping they would be just as thrilled as I was in my head about it, off to great distant lands with my Indiana Jones hat in tow.
Day two, not only were my feet swollen but so were the pillows under my eyes. And I began the day by shuffling until I could eventually pick my feet up in a full swing-walking gait.
I was wearing the ultra-thin Vibram five-finger shoes that I was convinced were perfect for my long journey. Repetitive kissing of sole to concrete began feeling like a fire was brewing under my feet. The pain initiated a break in every possible river, stream and handy water bottle to soak my feet in cool water. I’d lay with my feet towards the sky and closely investigate the blood running down my legs. For a few moments I’d think I couldn’t get up from that very spot. Like ever. I didn’t want to. If I had a pillow and blanket I could have convinced myself to cozy-up and sleep it through.
I never did. But I always fantasized about it.
The first night truly alone in the woods was magical. I had made it to a National Park that was nestled along the Santiam River. It was just turning into spring and as snow had melted, the surrounding wood was still soaked. I did attempt to start the fire but couldn’t remember what the hell that survival guy on YouTube said to do to start a fire in the rain!
I made a cup-o-noodles and tucked into my sleeping bag with Ann Lamott’s book Bird by Bird.
As little creatures scoured with curiosity around my tent, it felt like I was returning to a place I hadn’t been in a long time, the wilderness.
When I think of the times I’ve gone hiking there’s always people and conversation around, where the focus was on listening to them rather than the sounds of nature.
I hadn’t realized how much I missed and loved the sound of the woods at night. I fell into the cocoon of my surroundings.
The next few days I witnessed some of the most beautiful parts of Oregon. Bend is an arid desert compared to the lush rainforest landscape of the western coast. I began listening less to my music and more to the river that weaved itself beside me.
I was heading to Breitenbush Hot Springs, where ten of my closest friends met me to share on the soaking of mineral-rich water and to say goodbye.
My friend Shireen played Unchained Melody as we huddled on the stone floor of the Buddha dome. My head cuddled on the chest of my boyfriend as my tears soaked into his cotton t-shirt and my hand gripped his arm. My godson climbed over our bodies as we all sang along….
Lonely rivers flow
To the sea, to the sea
To the open arms of the sea
Lonely rivers sigh
"Wait for me, wait for me"
I'll be coming home, wait for me.
I ran my fingers through his hair as he gripped tighter on my wrist.
I wanted to ask him to wait for me.
Instead, I whispered into his neck, “I love you.”
He grazed my face with back of his hand, “Ditto.”
He drove home while I kept walking towards Portland.
I would walk the length of the Great Sandy Desert grieving and learning the ultimate path to freedom: letting go.