I’m home. Again. Pulled in late last night from driving home with Rachel from Oregon.
I have crossed the bulk of this country three times this year, something I never thought might happen. I am more of a slow traveler, and until now, a 35+ hour drive to get to any destination, even one as seductive as Yosemite, has been overwhelming to the point of impossible. Too far. Too many miles. Too much time in a rack on wheels. Too big.
I did that trip three times in 2018. Each one a little different, each one it’s own adventure.
(Thank you Rachel)
And they were all good. Each and every trip. Big and beautiful and full of surprises and time and love. And I’m no longer thrown by the idea of a monster journey. Bring it on; we’ll manage.
But this one, this final trip, I am more glad to be home than any other. This one satisfied some of the curiosity. It showed me a few places twice (some thrice), and rubbed a little of the sheen off. It brought me back to earth, and showed me, undeniably, my place on it.
And it brought my daughter home to me, and that is possibly all that matters.
From Wisconsin, the Nexus of the Universe,