sounds familiar

I think we are good guests.

We are aware of the space we consume, and endeavor to contain, or at least pick up after, our sprawl. We take the washing after receiving the charity of food, doing our best to divine what goes where in foreign cabinets and drawers, getting things right enough if not perfect.

Adopt the air of the house, drop-in with the routine and work to not upset, as much as us possible being in some other’s castle, the normal goings on. We stay clean, both body and occupied space. Listen 2:1 to talk, ask questions and draw-out stories wanting to be told instead of only regaling with our own.

Compliment the wine. Appreciate the local. Smile over shared interests, delicately unearthed via a fishbone path of light interrogation. Inquire after history of the things aland people and places. Genuine, all – not a putting-on.

In hopes that, upon leaving, it’s not just us that enjoyed our time.

Peace.

Morning.

Trying to go back to sleep but I’m awake. Went to bed too early, now I’m up. The light outside is grey light, all around, growing brighter. I enjoy watcyh it happen slowly, the day turning on.

It’s so comfortable in bed. I feel good. I smell myself and I smell good. Clean still from last night’s shower, but now with a night’s worth of my own smell on me for the better. Clean skin and the oils of being alive. Smells familiar, like my dad’s pillowcase when I was young.

The temperature is right. Colder than desirable if not abed, but perfect to be covered by the comforter and nestled into sheets and mattress. I like the way it all feels against my skin. Warm and covering while the light still builds outside. I’m looking for deer in the forest out the window. They were there yesterday evening.

Almost enough grey light now to read by. That’s what I’m going to do. Even before making coffee. Just stay here in bed and read.

Good morning.

I think maybe my notion of what this actually is changed, that’s why it seems like we’re partly misaligned.

At first, in the beginning, it was a journey to us both. A circular thing, long and purposely wandering yes but with a start and a finish overlapping in space. An out-and-back, a break.

Somewhere along the way, though, I got to feeling more and more like this is a becoming. Independent, then, of the route through time and space. Started thinking not only about the where but the why.

Not that the where and when aren’t amazing enough. They’re incredible experiences. But what’s happening with the why all the while? I’ve been trying to share that, but it’s that new twist on purpose that’s been challenging to convey, I think.

Yes, we’re moving through time and space, experiencing the world and each other. We are, too, moving through phases of self, the former motion through outside space driving internal movement of the mind and soul. Right?

I know a break is different than a change. One goes back, one might not. One is safe and the other is scary. Take a severe enough break though, a time-out long enough, and you might forget why some things seemed so important and remember why others should’ve been more.

Taking, then, the still dawning why, would we expect what will be to look anything like what was? When we’re changed and still changing for all the where and when we’ve experienced? Right?

I think not, but I’m not saying it well.

So far over the hump now it feels all slippy and downhill. That gravity I’ve written about before pulls more strongly the closer we get to making that singular turn – westward again.

Dramatic, yes, since that turn is still some forty days away. Forty days more in the wilderness. To contemplate and relish, to consider and calculate. May they go slow, dripping languid with a full twenty four.

So much still to see and do, to breathe in and taste. Shirts yet to soak in sweat and shoes to muddy, bites yet to scratch and lament. Inches still to be had on this unruly beard.

Love.

Places like this, Dachau, the American Civil Rights Museum, where you see just what humankind can do to humankind for the silliest reasons, are always hard.

After three hours I was ready to be outside again, keenly aware, after all we’d just seen, of how easily I could just walk through a door and do so.

The weight of that evil sits on me, almost oppressive, like, somehow, I should bear part of the responsibility or own a stake in the shame. And that by simply being a part of Earth’s humanity, even all these years later, I’m personally charged with never letting such a thing happen again.

You find yourself wishing maybe you were part of a better tradition if humanity… not the same bunch of the Crusaders or Rwanda or Kosovo. But, this is the history we got.

Important, but hard. Hope the kids understand a little, realize how quickly evil human ideology can turn to evil deed.

Peace.

We are camped not ten miles from where the Virginia Company established the Jamestown colony, settling themselves in land already settled for hundreds of years by native peoples.

In the mornings I wake up and look out our front window onto the Gordon Creek. This morning, I was up early enough to catch the sun just above the plane of the water (didn’t actually see it break that plane, not quite that early). There are shallow reedy patches at spots, and they broke up the deep orange reflected sunlight, like little islands in lava.

And birds, so many birds. Singing. They know it’s Spring, I guess. The roads here are lined with fields in their Spring greenest, too, and fruit trees covered in flower. It’s warm, but the bugs aren’t out yet and the humidity is low. Yesterday evening I sat outside and read.

I like to imagine the colonists, and the Powhatan, maybe navigating the creek outside of our window, fishing or looking for game or exploring, killing each other. Four hundred years ago dragging reed-woven nets from a dugout canoe. Four hundred years ago for God and country.

Four hundred years is nothing. We’re talking ten to fifteen generations. So long ago, but really nothing. I can almost see them out there, hear them.

Peace.

The past couple mornings, the time of day where I’m consistently alone and have time and room to think, I’ve ended up unhappy with the amount of time and frequency I find myself thinking about “coming back.”

It’s like I’m being pulled in by the gravity I warned myself about… thoughts of returning to normal, ideas and plans and preparation. While these bothersome thoughts haven’t yet blotted out my enjoyment of the trip at hand, I’m worried at their increase.

I can see the turn in my writing, also. Using “me” and “I” much too often, giving everything a self-absorbed tone that turns me off as a reader. Telling the outer story as opposed to the inner one, or worse trying, stretching, to tell the outer because I should. Because I’m growing distracted.

For now, the worrisome thinking is fleeting, easily washed under by the everyday that is our world now. Walking up switchbacks to a waterfall or catching an Uber into town. Snuggling with the kids, making up stories or rehashing inside jokes we’ve been building on now for seven months. Baking cookies or bread. Kicking the kids outside to make love. Listening to the wind in the trees at night in the absolute coal black darkness.

Thing is, I’ve grown greedy. I want this world, these moments, everyday. Not just as things or moments we have to seek out intentionally because normal life lacks them, but as our everyday normal. Not relegated to weekend trips to take a break or family movie night to share a couch.

It’s not about the RV, the job, the location, the bank balance… it’s about being steeped in each other so deeply. I don’t know if my greed for that even has an end. I’ve not found it yet, and this construct is temporary. Makes sense, then, that my thoughts sour as I contemplate it coming to a close.

Until later then. Love.