i have taken every opportunity to live in other countries since i was nineteen and spent a summer in Canada learning a French that would later embarrass me when i lived in France.

One of these times i fell in with the right crowd. i love them still, these dreamy friends of mine; we keep in touch. They were mostly a bit older than i in a time of life when that mattered, and i was gladly taken underwing. One year on my birthday i did ecstasy with these friends and didn’t quit for another several months. None of us did.

We all worked hard at our day jobs, and those of us who weren’t local also studied the language. Our weekdays were steadily full and rewarding in their different ways. Weekends were reserved for dancing together all night long, taking care of each other, and snuggling at sunrise. It was all beautiful and nothing hurt. Several weeks went like this before we realized that Tuesdays were presenting a problem common to us all.

The institution of “blue Tuesdays” was a simple mechanism for tending to each other. i remember so fondly the understanding among those in attendance that none of us had any charisma to share. The potential darkness of one’s mental state following a chemical alteration was neither underestimated nor feared. For the most part we were all just low on energy; our weekends tapping every reserve we had. On Tuesdays then we would go out to eat together, tenderly sharing a table and food. We’d often startle ourselves by having a great time, if calmer than usual. That group of pals, if we ever tried to have fun, we’d succeed. i remember blue Tuesdays with a warmth in my heart unique to the undercurrent of care shared by beloved playmates.

There aren’t a lot of mechanisms for helping our pals like this. We were a tight-knit group, but i did see the pattern repeated in the kink community. People in that world will check up on each other a few days after playing together, just to make sure everything is okay. It is standard and expected that people do so, both as community care and a gesture of accountability. Kinky people also neither underestimate nor fear the darkness. They’re about courting it, really.

A low time after high time is especially noticeable in extremes, like with chemicals or kink, and otherwise deeply subjective and circumstancial. i usually experience a bit of melancholy following thorough and genuine enjoyment, often sober and clothed, even! Family gatherings can do this, the same as a fresh romance. It feels like life tends toward balance in this way, though really it’s all brain chemistry.

What i know about these trade offs for certain is that the memories stay sweeter—the highs stay higher—when you’ve got a soft, loving place to come down.

i had planned to skip this road, this time. i was a passenger once, nearly fifteen years ago, down about ten hours of this coast, on this highway.

i had planned to miss it because i didn’t want to deal with the hassle. i remembered the traffic and the intensity of the driver’s stress at not be able to enjoy the views. i also remembered the views, and know myself too well not to then consider my safety as a driver.

Fast forward three months and i have done winding roads. i have learned to accomplish mountains, canyons, narrow passes, high altitudes, steep grades up and down, turn outs, in the dark, against the sunset… i have Done winding roads.

After much encouragement, i decided to visit Big Sur. i had completely forgotten my former reluctance about Highway 1. i arrived there fresh from Yosemite, to and from which one can only travel along stunning—currently especially wet and green—mountain twists and turns. i was primed for the coastal cliffs.

Turns out i can now handle my vehicle so well it feels like she was made for these roads. i drove south then north then south again, happily cruising, knowing the deep blue ocean would be there often. Green is everywhere else, under a sweet blue sky. Giant birds—gulls, hawks, cormorants, ravens, vultures—soar and spin in ocean wind above unearthly waves that crash over boulders, into cliffs. Everywhere that’s not water, flowers are eagerly in bloom on green and rocky hills. Cows wander huge fields, surrounded by glorious scenery. Cars speed through all of this, over curves and around bends, as if paced for racing.

And everyone pulls over along the way at sunset. If not, you’d miss the sounds of frogs.

Yesterday i drove into the sunset from the Sierra mountains to the ocean. i went to bed late on Highway 1, waves crashing far below me. The morning was probably twice as beautiful as you’re imagining: birds, bees, butterflies, and a relentless, roiling surf.

Today i found Big Sur. Upon looking up at these massive, old as fuck trees, guess what happened? Nothing surprising: i burst into tears. The comedic kind that spurt like an explosion from probably the most terrible face i can make. i knew that the size of the trees and my respect for them was the catalyst for this eruption, and when i asked myself what else was going on, only gratitude arose.

Through tears i found myself thanking the forest, the universe, myself. Nearly three moons from my Maine departure, i have reached the ocean again. Even as i write this my vision blurs. The reality is that a deep peace settles into your soul when you pursue the life of your own dreams. The gift is that when you’ve done so, the universe will toss more realized dreams your way, almost casually. Here you go, you earned this.

Spending so long on the road alone, rarely lonely, every day in awe, fostered the comfort down in me. i have been feeling a new, yet permanent sense of resolve, assuredness, and fearlessness.

My calm, strengthened soul was then entirely blindsided by an abundance of luxurious, desired gifts that seemed to appear out of nowhere. Like a celebrity in flashbulb light i was stunned, covering my features and demanding my own space. i had felt quite content and secure before these intricate, gorgeous opportunities showed up. At first i did not want them, the way they disrupted my calm. At second i did not feel deserving. Being so selfishly focused of late, i felt unprepared.

It took a minute—and some generous coaxing—for me to realize that not only am i qualified for, i also deserve, this goodness. It turns out that both of these statements are true of everyone at any time; please don’t let your silly brain tell you differently.

Today, a proper acceptance speech could fall out of my mouth at any moment, including the part where i hyperventilate and gush that “never in my wildest dreams could i have hoped for this!” That would be a cute fib for everyone to agree on, when this is what i dreamed of all along.

i’m in a parking lot somewhere near Yosemite National Park held fast by the cats and dogs of spring rainfall. If you were here we’d probably be naked by now, but i no longer spend time on dreams like that, of you. i do enjoy the memories. i write because in remembering now, one thing in particular stands out. i’d like to thank you, even though i know you didn’t do it on purpose, not quite. Even i couldn’t have told you it could work, the way you cared for me, but you showed me exactly the ways i want partnership to be. From those moments, especially our final afternoon of passion and playfulness, i take such comfort. Thank you for helping me identify my ideal. Your honesty also groomed for me a confidence in us that leads me to feel comfortable writing this now, regardless of time passed. Real shit feels real, and stays real, even when you’re just bumpin’ uglies with a pal.

i’m driving winding roads again. Green on all sides, a first since the Northeast coast, in Wabanaki and Penobscot territory. Here, a slow rain is pattering down through ancient pines into stubborn snow, the last of which clings to the earth’s edges, collecting dirt. The droplets are plump. They hang lazily in the air as if unwilling to show up on time to fall together. Instead they simply appear, like so many beads of sweat from pores of skin, one by one. i can’t even set the windshield wipers on auto, so gently does this rain fall.

i wonder if i’ve been dreaming. i wonder for how long. i try to arrange the moments chronologically. i try to reassure myself of reality. i am at a loss, though i have a feeling of winning overall.

i pull the car over to admire the pines. The remnant snow snuck into corners like children hiding from bedtime. There are mountain lions in there, i’ve heard tell. And fresh pine nuts if you know how to look.

i have known very few springtimes that were not illustrated by sweet rain on filthy snow. This reality tickles consistent memories: a cycle i can rely on. i smell the cleansed air, the touch of cold. Moisture in the air brings it closer to something i know.

i roll the window down to breathe deep of this reassuring atmosphere. i tilt my head out to let the rain hit my sun-kissed face. A wet cleanse after a fevered dream. Winter making way for spring.

i haven’t ever gotten to know a donkey. We, the trio of which i lately enjoyed being part, called them burros because it’s a cute word. i like to practice rolling my r’s.

The other day i went for a walk near a lake somebody named Havasu. There i startled some wee bunnies, and then a roadrunner. It was early in the day and the thicket i found was full of excitable blackbirds, chattering and singing away while everyone did their morning foraging. The roadrunner flew to a tree and perched a while. It didn’t mind me less than ten feet away, staring to memorize this animal i’d not seen before. Roadrunners do indeed have a fun tuft of something on their head that does a little up and down sometimes. We both rested there a while, near each other. Things like this happen for me a lot, especially this trip. i feel lucky that in a time of difficult human socializing, i can still make friends with animals. If you ever feel like it, please ask me about the ravens in Bryce Canyon. We had whole conversations.

Among the nomads i felt no less an observer—no less respectful, grateful, or endeavoring to leave no trace. Emancipated humans are gorgeous creatures, common but rarely observed. They are not altogether unpredictable, nor are they prone to reckless or foolish behavior. Free people are organized by intention, choosing community or not as they please, all the while unapologetically their own unique selves. Unfettered by worldly nonsense one can truly let go—free range humans laugh all the time, and pass judgement so infrequently that one among them could forget the habit.

i use the same skills of communication for all creatures to whom i’d like to offer good will, or companionship, if at a distance, if only for a time. Ravens will get well within six feet, but these days that’s more rare among strangers. Living in Taiwan i learned to give a tiny bow to demonstrate appreciation and respect. i have, gratefully, not let go of this habit. If you spend time with me you can notice minute bows surprisingly often, as i subconsciously entreat my audience. i do much more dramatic bows once in a while with humans, but always with big horned sheep, buffalo, deer… Hoofed creatures seem to genuinely understand the moment when i meet their eyes, close mine slowly, and lower my face away from theirs. i can watch their bodies relax and sometimes even notice a softer gaze. Wary eyes become calmer, often as the animal turns their back to me, which really feels like a compliment: i am so harmless as to have become wholly unimportant. i learned to bow to animals in Taiwan as well, when a startled monkey mama took a definitive stance, so Dave whispered that we should look away from her and the babies. i bowed then, and the rustle of leaves told us of their retreat, a close call.

People who live beyond the constraints of society organize themselves with natural grace. A former manager of fellow workers might wonder where their schedule is, so easily is each meal created and offered. There is little to no talk of money; each member of a group is simply expected to do what they are able. As a person on the outside, i made myself available to help however i could. i also made a lot of my own meals, but was welcomed to share in many of the group’s as well. i never saw these people deny anyone, among them or who had wandered in, anything. Things wanted fixing and somebody fixed them. Needs were met so that enjoyment could be prioritized. If there had been rules among this camp, mutual aid was number one.

Today i saw a skunk! It ran across the road in front of me and I cheered because there was plenty of distance. That little rascal made it well in time. i told him not to spray me as I drove by.

i also made friends with some turkeys. I told them it was safe to cross the path and they believed me. If i turned to face the Drake, he would fluff up his feathers really quickly but not fully. i would bow, and i would concentrate on not being a threat to him. i would picture us being being peaceful and send it to him. He would put his feathers down and turn away from me. This happened thrice. Each time i convince an animal that i’m friendly, it feels like a huge accomplishment. It also always feels like a lesson about people.

Have you ever greeted a donkey and then laughed for any reason? Eeyore was no exaggeration—burros will lower their heads and back up as if embarrassed. i met several sweet burro friends in Arizona, only to find myself apologizing to half of them for my startling laugh. Those were town donkeys, wandering in for food from tourists. It took a day or two but i finally spotted the donkeys we’d been hearing from the hills near our camp. They had a horse friend among their little tribe.

We are all animals. We all organize naturally to take care of each other, given the right conditions. The freedom of anarchism is beautiful and possible and for me now more a faith than ever before. Humility in greeting strangers is a major priority as well. If i bow to you now, it is as a free creature. Listen closely on a quiet night for my song coming from the wilderness.

i drove out of the desert yesterday and didn’t settle down until i saw grass. i didn’t need grass, but that was when i finally settled. i thought maybe the dusty smell of desert now belonged to a place in time: if i go back to take a whiff, it could fill me with sensations specific to the moment i’d just left behind. i could visit us there sometime.

Today my home needs new brake pads and i am stuck in a strip mall full of loud machinery on the only bench i could find within a mile of the auto shop. It’s a bus stop next to six lanes of traffic and some kind of construction separate from the other machine noises. The desert is long gone.

Though now here has arrived a mourning dove, unfamiliar yet identifiable, hopping over a curb toward some crumbs. There you are: pointing out birds and helping me solve their puzzles, find their names. i don’t know where your body is now but i can see you grinning. And here i am, far from that moment we left. Here i am, cheesing right back.

i am wandering the desert in bare feet and sweatpants. i’m not lost, but i’m not sure why i’m here. Scrub brush and assorted attempts at green mingle among every size of stone from sand to boulder. The shades of grey show color if you give them a moment. i crest a wash to discover a line of pocked aluminum cans sitting on a ledge dug into a rocky dune. My dust-covered toes find footing amid spindly grasses and jagged edges to examine a couple sodas and some booze replaced by sand and ammo. i tip the cans to let BBs slide out sparkling amid the dust that weighed their targets down. The little spheres are heavy for their size, satisfying to roll around my filthy palms. The sound of a helicopter sends my face toward the sky; i take in the landscape again. Desolate, but not hopeless. i am a sunburnt, sandblasted child of some apocalypse, tear ducts full of dust. The wind whips past in particles and i raise my hood to hide from the desert. i take the BBs home to meet my collection of other small beauties.

Dave and i were scootering through the jungle towns on the island of Nusa Penida when we accidentally rolled up on a parade of some kind. We had no way of knowing what or why this procession was happening—a lot of people dressed elaborately in whites carrying various but all tall, handmade, flower-filled ornaments like so many flag bearers. Some had gorgeous headdresses of woven palm leaves. There was a Balinese kind of rhythmic metallic percussion that made us pull over just before the procession took over the narrow street. There was no room for us but to gawk and wait, though we discovered later we’d both felt it necessary to avert our eyes as a gesture of respect. Neither of us knew why.

Lately i have been spending time with a group of people who love each other and the world so well that it’s all i can do to admire and be among them. i am delighted to find that nomads exist, in tribes that are genuinely cooperative, non-hierarchical, and prosperous according to their own standards. i was brought here by a lover who vouched for me, and so am not of the group despite my adoration of it. My being a visitor doesn’t stop anyone from treating me like i belong. It does stop me from taking pictures, though i don’t often avert my eyes.

i’m sorry in advance that i cannot share the brilliant camp meals, ingenious build-outs of different rigs (there are three school busses being outfitted down the campground from the spot i’m visiting!), the irish wolfhound who sniffs at the miniature pinscher while the pitbulls play with the german shepherd, the faces of these people when they look at each other, ways they work to fix each other’s rigs, share meals, make art, or the parties.

There are a lot of ways to feel about all of this and a lot of moments to feel all of those ways. Still, one feeling stands out: i’m grateful just to be here.

And so there will not be many photos for you.

i have the joy of knowing a woman who falls asleep early and mostly unapologetically among her family. She’ll let herself doze off on the couch amid voices and laughter, a peaceful calm on her face. We talk about this and she professes her love for nestling into a room—complete only with good blankets—of loved ones.

When i first struck out on my own with my car, i enjoyed parking in remote spots around Maine and New Hampshire totally alone. i often wouldn’t have cell service, and i’d stay a few days then go park at a friend’s house for a while. Hitting the road this time meant considering different locales (irrelevant, it turns out) as well as parking venues specifically. Lots, rest areas, truck stops, public lands, national forests are all in play now. i talked to an experienced traveler who pointed out the ways having people nearby might feel more safe. “If there’s regular noise you can get used to it, but if you’re all alone and one other person shows up, you might wonder about them.” i have only parked totally alone a few times since.

On the road i started with parking lots, rest stops, then finally public lands in New Mexico. The last was a huge relief and i took advantage by using my tent as much as possible. i like seeing other campers from a distance. Neighbors are good.

At my current campsite, i wake up and go to sleep to chatter and laughter from the group i’m visiting. A beloved moment repeated a myriad of ways in my lifetime, all of them exciting and happy: waking up to warm conversation. There’s maybe the smell of bacon, or toast. Definitely coffee. Some of my memories feature people still partying from the night before, but more often the company simply seem happy, even if they’d rather be back in bed. In more tender memories i get orange juice, not coffee, then become impatient with adult conversation. i remember wondering who else is up, listening for birds and breakfast. Hugging pets. Cooking french toast and promising everyone that it’ll be great. Watching loved ones kiss each other bleary good mornings. Generous snuggles, grumbles, giggles.

When the voices of relative strangers waft into my tent as those of loved ones have down hallways, up stairs, under doors, through walls… when my half-awake ears hear the familiar murmur, i travel these morning memories, leaning in to their sustenance. A sweetness often overlooked, a warmth worth recognizing.

i was spending a third night in Moab when a couple with a camper joined the site i’d chosen. They made me laugh, and continued surprising me the whole time we spent together.

These two humans, married now something near thirty-five years, had different faiths and prayers. They did separate and similar good works. They never boasted, but were forthcoming with interesting stories of a life well-lived—in my opinion but more importantly and quietly, theirs. We laughed a lot. At a fire one morning, i noticed from my car that one of their chairs had blown right into the flames. A nice chair! i barely retrieved it and upon noticing the damage, neither of them did much besides shrug. We did talk about ways to repair it, but not with any sense of concern. We live simply so that we might adventure, and that means sitting on the ground sometimes.

What delighted me most was to find that i was getting know genuine people of faith. People for whom “the word” is a way of living, never a judgement call to make of others. They talked about doing their own work as well as their work together. But they didn’t really need to talk about it, they only did because i asked. And i asked because i’d noticed. i’d felt their compassion, i never felt judged. Our time together was easy and full of curiosity.

i got a text from a former coworker pal saying he’d watched “The Legend of Walter Mercado” and it reminded him of me. i finished it recently and i am still blushing.

Creed and culture aside, humans need faith. i love every kind of faith—there isn’t one that doesn’t tell you to do your best and keep your strength. To be kind to other humans as much as possible. You don’t necessarily need religion for this, but heroes, gods, folklore. Who doesn’t pray when something terrible happens, “um hey god, i know we don’t talk much…” Anyone can benefit from leaning into rituals that might offer hope. i just really like it when people genuinely endeavor to make a life worthy of their god.

i admitted this realization to my new friends as i thanked them for their candor. i asked for the titles of their books. Faith is also a little contagious, and i like that, too.

It has come to my attention that people think i’m doing a lot of hiking or other outdoor sports on this adventure. Y’all my favorite part of hiking is making people laugh by whining, so going solo is whatever. i make myself laugh all the time. i have been on some little hikes and i definitely love wandering a National Park, but i’m not out here being athletic. i like wandering alone. i also like doin stuff in my car alone, like reading, writing, mapping, dreaming, talking, breathing, and a lot of listening. Today i got to do those things on a picnic blanket; it only took four weeks.

If you’re being tailgated: there will be a pull-off/turn-out soon—both you and he can wait. If you see a stunning view: there will never be another pull off. In both cases, take the first one you find.

My hands are insanely tanned compared to the rest of my body.

The majority of people (i’d say two-thirds) i have seen wearing masks have been millennials, and children of millennials. The majority of people i have seen without masks have been Gen Xers. This has been true for every place i’ve been in the past year. Hands down most masks was New Mexico, where nobody even pretends they’re too cool or that they don’t know it goes over your nose.

In my tiny world without wifi, i have so far purchased three reference books! i am delighted with all of them: birds, stars, and rocks + minerals + landforms . It’s much more rewarding to be actually learning, as opposed to getting an answer, but who has room for a library in their car (can i get a volunteer to be texted with questions i must ask the internet?).

Everyone should dig a hole and poop in it. Like just try it once, i guess, but wow if it isn’t just so purely satisfying you’ll wanna do it again. Who inspired the bidet but Mother Nature herself?!

There are moments, whole hours probably, spent blind to anything but what is immediately in front of me. When it occurs to me that i have not planned for the future, or revisited times past, i will collide with reality in a momentary burst of madness. At those times i either laugh or cry, it’s all the same insanity.

What’s crazy is that i have any notion that planning even matters. Every plan gets pushed around. i like planning to have a good day. That usually works out and it’s a cute way to not care about getting lost or backtracking or whatever. Here i am though now, on the east side of Zion, with no plans for after i visit the park.

Well, i do have one plan: a longer resting spot in Northern California. There are quite a lot of unknown miles between here and there. And this is the extent to which i’ve planned my near-term future as well as my future, in the spooky sense of being far off but ever-possible (and definitely having to do with capitalism but i won’t go there). i am currently living exactly how i want to live. i know my plans for the future too, i just don’t know much about the road in between.

i just need to be witnessing the world, now. i am more than content when i can see so much right in front of me. i have been driving up and down narrow, steep, windy, cliffside, rock-threatened, upsettingly beautiful mountain and canyon roads all over five different states. i’ve grown to handle it, though i could always use more turn-outs.

i like to stop and gawk; the roads i choose are long and varied. i’ve really calmed down about wanting to see too far ahead.

The snow looks like it has been cozied up to the rocks and trees since this landscape was born. Logically i know this isn’t true, but i feel like the youngest thing here, a baby intruding in a land of immortal giants, almost unwelcome in the eternal intimacy of it all.

i like when my eyes well up until the tears cling absurdly to the inside of my lower lids like they’re afraid to fall. i like to blink, slowly, then. i like teardrops that fall fat and splash somewhere inconvenient.

i like the crying that seems to spring forth from my eyes like in a cartoon—a fountain of tears. This is nearly always accompanied by the contortion of a pained face, sounds of pain too.

Have you ever let out an animal scream?! Not in play, but in grief or fury or a mad wildness. Driving is maybe not when i should have done that, but holy hell. i have known ugly crying, but this was feral, wide like it should have been wailed in a canyon. Maybe screams like these finally came out of me precisely because of the broad sky. i would prefer not to hold them in so long again.

Some tears come gently, streaming around eye creases, cheekbones, nose crevices, to salt the lips or drip off the chin. A softness in reaction to a beautiful scene, something sweetly poignant and deeply felt. i like those cries too.

i like my tears best when i don’t search for a reason. i try to shift my brain away from assessing blame or some kind of fix, onto recognizing the straightforward usefulness of letting myself overflow. The width and breadth of this adventure is no fucking joke. i’m allowed to cry every day for no reason and maybe i don’t even feel sad. You would cry too, if it happened to you.

A wee kiddo arrives at Delicate Arch to squeal in earnest: “How tall is that? One hundred pounds?!”

An older young one, this time on a cliff trail, and quite philosophically: “What can happen? Could I fall down? Would I die? Who knows!”

A dad and his three boys were politely scooting and climbing all over the park. One of the younger ones had stopped to catch his breath with his elder brother before i passed. He asked if i liked the view, and then told me to have a great day. i met the dad and another boy a few rocks down and chatted with them about the two i’d just met. Later the whole family were walking behind me talking, positively, about Kanye West. The eldest dropped an N-bomb and was immediately told off by the dad: “That’s not a word we use. It’s not our word and you know that.” The teen—pre-teen?—maintained that he hadn’t used the word, while both of his little brothers backed up their dad.

“Daddy I found a cairn!” Pronounced “karen” and with utter delight.

“I prefer forty degrees to one hundred degrees.” Everyone around this person agreed wholeheartedly, including me and some other strangers.

Two seven-year olds run by on the trail, shouting: “I see Logan!” “I’m in charge of you.” “Well I see Logan I want to go meet Logan!” “Logan, what are you doing down there?!”

Two adults talking about their jobs are interrupted by an assertive child: “Shh! We cannot have that conversation here.”

As i typed some of this, a white-haired crew came by, loudly grateful for the lack of a crowd. The last of them said to me, as if i was his own granddaughter, “Come on, this is a no-phone zone.” i replied, “i’m writing, does that make a difference?” He paused. “Why yes it does,” followed by an admiring grin, and from the rest of the group came a murmur of agreement as they continued walking along.

“Well I’m just gonna say it again: this is way better than workin’.”

You might worry that your vigilance has waned. At what degree is alert protectiveness sufficient, you wonder. You have your weapons placed strategically and your body speaking tough language. Could that be enough to allow you to pee in broad daylight in a desert campground?

Yep. Against the car and between the doors, but anybody looking would have known. i did this out of necessity and confidence. i imagined if someone said, “You know we can see you?” i’d reply, “Not if you don’t look.”

And here’s the thing: actually so very few people are interested in fucking with others. For every friend’s horror story—there are uncomfortably plenty—i would wager there are at minimum ten significantly less noteworthy nights spent on the road. Correct me if i’m wrong, for real.

In a snowstorm at a truck stop i parked first, soon accompanied by a van on my passenger side, gladly blocking some wind. Later an economy car came to join me on the left. In the morning the skies blued and the ice dripped; i’d been parked nearly 20 hours, these others each more than fifteen. The van was from Québec, the car: New York. Maine nestled nicely in between. We all smiled at each other and never spoke. i was the first to leave.

At a rest stop one night that feels like forever ago now—at least 2,000 miles—i posted up in the fourth and furthest spot from another car that was clearly there for the night. After i was all settled, a pickup truck with a homey cap took the middle space. The driver, closest to me, started saying what they were gonna carry and “Could you grab..” things. Another voice said something and the first voice gave a hushed, “Oh!” i didn’t hear either voice again as they settled in.

In the Bureau of Land Management (BLM) campground where i’ve been the past couple of nights, there was a group out at one site with a sweet sound system playing Bon Iver, Tom Petty, Enigma (Return to Innocence! When was the last time you heard that song?!) and Ray Charles. Somebody found a mic and greeted the campground, “It’s karaoke night in Willow Springs! Get out of your vans and come hang by our fire, we don’t care if you can sing!” This was, to me, both uproariously hilarious and completely unnerving. Y’all what. Turns out it was a joke and they just played more random, epic music until nightfall. The last song was Rob Zombie’s Dracula, at 8PM.

As of this evening i have been parking to sleep in strange places for twenty-one days and nights. i am grateful, and must admit my relief, at the lack of events to report. Nonetheless, each of my weapons is placed strategically at all times. i walk—and pee!—like no one can touch me. i am also friendly all the time, including in the simplest ways: respect and trust extended to strangers.

There are those little quick ones that would be tricks of light, probably, if there were any other light to mention. Sometimes they are similarly faint but less brief, and you are assured at what you’ve witnessed. Bright and bold are the most grand of course, most especially the lingerers among them. Silver that hangs in the sky just a bit longer, a dramatic exit. Once in a long while, a smaller one will leave a long tail among the solid stars. No less glorious and varied are the steadfast points of light out there ignoring the darkness. They’re all burning, some just need to run around the sky about it. The moon is smiling tonight, cheshire. i’ve been gone from Maine two moons now. The sky has always been there. In the desert of Moab it’s so dark that stars can shine through cloud cover. i like the ones that fall to catch you not looking directly at their corner of the dark. You don’t doubt it but are instead sorry you didn’t quite catch it. As if shooting stars needed to be more hopelessly romantic.

You’ve rested here a bit and you’re turning to head out when she appears, out of nowhere? You don’t see where she came from but she goes to follow you as if you’ve forgotten her. She does look accidentally left behind: healthy, beloved, earnest. She is guileless when she asks if she’s supposed to follow you. You are pretty sure she should not. Someone surely misses this sweet, gorgeous creature. Surely. Why then does she look to you this way? You offer her part of your snack and she gladly accepts. She doesn’t look famished as she eats, but when her eyes meet yours again it’s with the same questions. You tell her she can’t join you for so many reasons, and someone else is looking for her. These are the things you repeat to yourself as you leave her behind. These are the things you repeat to yourself as you break your own heart.

My life isn’t that different, really. The other day i crushed a season of Schitt’s creek in my “living room” with snacks and in my blankets. While texting.

Unexpected number of kids in tears at a vortex in Sedona. Unexpected amount of reverence at the stupa.

Most nights i can see stars out my rear passenger window, snuggled all the way into bed with my head on the pillow. What a dream, to be so close to the sky while at rest. It gets cold sometimes though, and other times i need privacy, then the window cover goes up. In the desert there are all kinds of shooting stars.

How many card games can you name? Not play, just name. Let me tell you, i got into it one night—i bet it’s more than you think.

I think some people who get tailgate while driving are probably also close talkers. Someone please tell them.

Here’s a thing that’s never been a problem in my life until now: when peeing outside turns that spot into a sticky mess of mud, or worse: clay.

The difference between the $1 gallon of drinking water and the $2 one is the quality of plastic. If you are unsure, simply let your newly purchased water rest atop your car, then watch as it slides slowly but somehow inevitably down the windshield, at which the crease will not catch it as you’d hope—because it’s a Gallon of Water—until it slips right off the hood of the car into a grocery store curb and explodes in a real special kind of glory.

This cow alone in the Buffalo River brings me at least as much joy as “Christ of the Ozarks”.

pace yourself, you know

brevity of sustenance

small bites, chew slowly

My best and favorite playlists, updated semi-regularly:

a sing-a-long for the mirror

tunes for being in love (with the world)

rhythms for the road

relentless cheer

There was a paddock full of slow-moving copper-colored cows next to the church parking lot. i knew as much as they did that today was Sunday. Hell, they probably expected the midday mass rush better than i did as i backed my car into a spot made for pulling in. It was far away from other cars.

The morning unplanned, i had found myself first thing wandering into an art gallery on Canyon Road in Santa Fe, jaw dropped beneath my mask. The cheerful woman running the gallery called me an early bird, welcoming. i wandered the sculpture garden, in earnest trying to stay out of doors as much as possible, taking in all of the amazing art as slowly as i could. When i wandered back inside, the curator wanted to chat. As we talked her love of the space she maintained simply flowed off of her like an infusion of aura. i met her there, dazzled in the presence of so much soulful creation. She complimented my hair, praised my solo journey, and offered unsolicited advice that i didn’t mind one bit: take the scenic road to Taos.

Andrea (Ahn-drey-ah) started dreaming then. i saw her mind’s eye go toward the road as she tried to recall state route numbers. i watched her face squint in recollection, then soften to remember the glory of this particular journey. “You will really be in god’s country,” she said, and i knew she wasn’t capitalizing it. My host did all but take me with her when she said to stop in Chimayo, where the Santuario is visited by an annual Easter pilgrimage from all over the state. “The church has a dirt floor. Holy dirt.” Don’t have to tell me twice. Other, more reasonably timed, people started to arrive, but Andrea was nothing if not a gracious host. In no hurry, she lastly asked if i was myself an artist, and i told her i try. She said she hopes i do, then gave me her card, “If you need anything at all, any help while you’re in Santa Fe, directions in New Mexico, don’t hesitate.” i believed her, bowed with gratitude, eyes sparkling with tears and possibility. “You’re doing what I wish I was doing today,” this woman i now admired said as i turned to leave. “i take you with me, Andrea,” i patted my heart, and i think she believed me, too.

My maps app was guiding me when i saw the route Andrea had mentioned. A delight, that i could turn the app off and just follow some signs. i cruised past worn-out-looking paddocks and gorgeous adobe houses. Dust makes everything look worse for wear, i think, even if that isn’t the case. This scenic route was taking me through neighborhoods, past apathetic horses, white bikes and well-kept crosses, hills staggered across with low lying housing, windows toward the sun.

“Santuario Parking” was the first sign of my destination. i didn’t know if i would be stopping until i parked. And i didn’t know it was Sunday until i wandered into the outdoor complex and noticed a sign for noon’s mass en El Santuario de Chimayó. It was 11:55 and i had Felina’s rosary in hand. The priest stood under a pavilion while his congregation spread out further than six feet, on benches, walkways, and walls. i found my own isolated spot quite easily. Everyone was actually “in this together”; i wondered when in this strange year i had truly felt like that among folks i didn’t know. Perhaps only in New Mexico, where everyone wears masks even outdoors.

In the paddock behind the priest a cow came along slowly. She grazed there while the priest recited things his congregation knew the responses to. i was happy to be under my mask, having been easily thwarted by Catholic recitations all my pagan life. i didn’t wonder what i’d gotten myself into as much as i wondered where i was when the priest spoke English with an Asian accent alternating with proper Spanish. i looked around the crowd of about fifty people, diverse and alert, the pious and the tourists. We were all exuding respect; no one even whispered. i dared not photograph this holy event. Instead, i let myself sink into a foreign experience as god’s word was spoken.

After some research i guess it must have been Father Sebastian Lee who spoke that chilly day. He asked his congregation, “Is life a blessing or a burden?” We all said, “Blessing,” immediately but without much joy. He said, “And is life a boundless happiness, or a valle de lágrimas?” The whole congregation hesitated, and he laughed an easy laugh. “It’s a valley of tears! It’s not a trick question, life is difficult. Life is hard. But you called it a gift before. Why?” The father then launched into a couple biblical stories of sacrifice, reminding us that god is there not to hand us happiness, but to help us through difficulty. So that we may better appreciate the joys. “We do not reach out to god expecting him to fix everything. He will not. He will only show you the way out of this trouble, so that you can move on to the next.” This was my kind of homily, by god. Life is suffering. Nothing really helps but faith that each difficulty can be overcome, and that each happiness will return. It is only by grace that we are allowed to make a life in the valley of tears.

i returned to my car now surrounded by others, looking very silly with it’s faraway plates. Alone again, i embraced the valle de lágrimas, and hit the road to Taos.

What even constitutes crying? If it’s as simple as shedding a tear, i do it every day. It’s not always because i’m sad; sometimes i laugh when things aren’t funny, too.

Lately i feel exposed, a cut fruit with juice just waiting on the surface. A mess or a sweetness, often both. i have been enjoying the exposure, however vulnerable.

Today i went to church by accident. On a Sunday, even! i cried a lot in that holy place Chimayó, in a santuario to which there is an annual Easter pilgrimage from Santa Fe, nearly 30 miles away.

i always cry in sanctified places. Where ever humans gather to better themselves, really. i feel overwhelmed with possibility at any gathering like this. i can not help but cry for all the hope of the humans there joined together.

i am not used to this landscape with all of its sky. i find it difficult to judge distances. Somehow every moment of confusion will become a metaphor for life: what good is knowing the distance when i can enjoy right now?

There is something static about my current existence, but i can’t quite put my finger on it. Some days it feels as if i cannot exist without someone else noticing me, other days i just wonder at my basic lack of overall direction. None of this bothers me much.

i don’t mind going days without talking to other humans. i like to wave at other drivers whenever i’m off the main road. If i am out walking, i say hi to strangers who pass just close enough. i like to treat anyone who’s on the job as if they are already canonized for their sainthood.

i ran into a grey-haired woman near Bandelier Monument. We parked our cars at the same overlook and as i locked my doors she shouted, “Well you’re a long way from home!” She was traveling alone as well; we had a nice chat, in our masks, at a distance. There was a deep solidarity between us, and no need for more.

My home is right here, i could have told her, but i like to love up Maine anyway. i saw a person on a sidewalk stop dead and stare when they saw my license plate. It’s a badge of honor, to be this far from “home”.

But home is a feeling i need never be far from. i called my mom when she was with my brother, sister-in-law, and baby nephew. At first it was chaotic hearing everyone on speaker, but wow did the tears come then.

Things i might have been taking for granted: being able to walk, physically, into one’s personal space. i do a lot of crawling these days. Another: sleeping wearing less than a whole outfit.

Turns out i’m obsessed with grasses. Ever since that rainbow one i have been fascinated and my love for them has only grown in this dry, whispery winter place. i love to swish them with my hands. i paid for the Santa Fe Botanic Gardens and commenced my swishing, and listening. The wind is better suited, of course. Those moments when the breeze strummed the grasses were melodic. As i walked i ran my hand through the dry, hollow stalks, just to feel the shaky husks. What i really wanted to do was pluck them to draw later, but that didn’t seem appropriate no matter how i considered it. And then i went to pet what looked like a leafy little palm that turned out to be a stiff and spiky yucca! i snatched my hand back and saw that this desert jerk had drawn a pinprick of blood in much the way a doctor would like for testing. i fairly laughed aloud and went to sit down and nurse my little wound, considering the implications of having non-consensually fondled various plants.

Stuff i have definitely said, some i may have shouted, while driving: “Have You SEEN My Liscense Plate?!” “No, thank you, i’ll be going to hell.” “Where IS everythiiiing?!” “Move over, that guy is about to have a baby!!!” “How’s everybody doin’?” “i am sick of being on the moon i wanna go back to earth” “Fucking Altitude!” “Shut uuup, shuuuut up” this last to the beeps in my car when i’m in reverse without my belt on and it’s a fucking chorus. “Sweet overlook! For me to PEE ON!”

suddenly

you catch yourself wondering at a flat world

the horizon is everywhere

surely this much sky needn’t be seen

cowboys love this shit

this vast expanse that will have you crawling

into yourself so tightly

it’s the call of the void in opposite

if only you could become a black hole

instead of experiencing this unchanging semi-sphere

you disappear into the endless landscape

still you trust that the truckers

sometimes on three sides

can see you clearly

a tiny metal island from Maine

why aren’t there more passenger vehicles

you trust that there are human beings

amid the machinery

trust again

in other states you drove

winding mountain roads, so carefully

pulling over to let locals pass

now you barrel over pavement for miles

of nearly nothing at all

toward a limitless horizon

faster than you’d like sometimes

the odometer says there has been progress

you’re trusting this also

a surprisingly small sign says

“Old Route 66”

you might bark out loud,

“Where are my kicks though?!”

but whose fault is that really

you laugh like you’re wasted

too sober

the abyss screams from every angle

what else to do but scream back

“We’re driving straight through,” you’ll tell your possessions

as if your stuffed animal gives a shit

nothing is anything if not hilarious

you’ll pet the dashboard, thank your car

still

wrapped in the claustrophobic

static of dusty browns touching blue on all sides

you cruise fast behind and around big rigs

hours have passed

as every car passes you

but what even is time

just more measurements

you could spy a Virginia plate

even Ohio speeds by

reassured somehow, you might wave at them

you are not-quite-speeding due west forever

or until you fall off this flat earth

you will be riding into the sunset

diving into the hottest parts of the fire

starting at the seams where it touches the world

the interminable firmament will be taken over

slowly now creeps electric orange

fluorescent pink rises

to be engulfed in each other then

consumed by cobalt

the blues devour

until darkness

a quiet glory surrounds you in increments

you alone

among other cowboys

and the square acres of dirt

an end of day artistry

massive in ways you’ve never known

takes over this unfamiliar world

paints a heavy hush against your fears

suddenly

you catch yourself wondering at the boundless beauty

that graces all alike

on the seventh day you met the sky

Every day is punctuated by small moments. The sentences between can drag on like the fields of Tennessee, or hide surprises like the Cherokee National Forest. These long stretches broken up by fractions of the minutes when my wide-eyed regard of the world drops my jaw as well.

Do you think three Baptist churches all next door in a row are rivals? Like do they have softball tournaments? Maybe gun clubs. If not for COVID i might have been tempted to investigate. i’ve always wondered what Baptist churches are like.

Today i wanted to find postcards. Jasper, Arkansas is an adorable little town that i would visit again with the opportunity. The Buffalo River is a meandering stunner. Loneliness can creep in the moments you realize you can’t camp in a dream spot because you’ve neither a pal nor any phone service. Why this was easier in New England, i can’t say. In Jasper i decided i wanted to remember to return, so i sought postcards. i waited until ten minutes after opening time to stroll into a shop where i was gladly met with some faded beauties of Buffalo River greatness. The shopkeeper said i could just have them. He just didn’t feel like they were worth much, and they were “at least thirty years old”.

In a landscape i’d never seen before, i settled down for a day. Trees growing out of water like “Tennessee mangroves”, according to Viv, but looking desolate in a gorgeous, particularly wintry way. i scared a black vulture, then an eagle startled me (video in previous post). Local people came and went—fishing, looking, one red-faced old man even drove his white pickup with a matching cowboy hat on the dash right up to me to chat. He wanted to know where i’d gotten my tent, but not really. Later, he came back to wish me well and warm. Sure, i didn’t love the advertising: single person in the wilderness, but in the end it was the ominous environs that had me departing before nightfall.

Yesterday i crested a hill with Sorcha where a great blue heron was looking for a spot on a pond. This dinosaur bird flew right beside my passenger window, less than ten feet away, and i managed to maintain my composure even while i could see it neck feathers ruffled by the wind. i swear, in flight that bird was half the length of my car.

These wide open fields, particularly in Tennessee where the space goes on and on, host a wild, unadulterated wind that just does whatever it wants. Birds apparently love this—they glide and bounce just above the ground, going absolutely nowhere against an infinity current of gust and breeze. There’s nothing like a flock of geese puttering around on the ground while another flock bounces around in the air only a few feet up.

i am a slow driver generally, but also i drive a Prius. i also prefer mountain and country roads to highways. i pull over to let other drivers pass often. In fact, i wrote most of this on shoulders of beautiful roads where i’d rather gawk than go the speed limit. i appreciate that Arkansas drivers aren’t as into tailgating as.. well, everyone else so far. It’s not like i didn’t know i was going slow before your headlights leaned into my trunk, North Carolina! Now i’m looking for the shoulder a bit more frantically, thanks. But Arkansas, you dears, leaving as much space between vehicles as between words in your sentences. i am so pleased to find a place to let you scooch on by. i’m realizing now that this is a lot of my comfort with the Ozarks over the Smoky Mountains. Tourist traps, take note.

Tree farms couldn’t possibly be more pleasing to the eye. All in rows, all different type of trees. i couldn’t do it justice, in words or photos, but the organization of those particular fields was, to me, exquisite.

i stopped by a KOA to ask after a hot shower. i was just ripening, and the woman at the desk said, “Cuz of the pandemic i can’t let you use the showers if you’re not a guest.” Then almost immediately followed that up with, “Okay I’ll give you the code but just keep it clean I know you will and if anybody asks you anything you tell em you’re a registered guest and to mind their business.” She was not wearing a mask. She was wearing a Trump hat. She stuck out her pinky for me to lock mine, so i did, “Pay it forward, okay?” i cannot recollect a sweeter shower.

i blow a kiss to every roadkill. Some are really gross, others still beautiful. One was a dog with a collar. Another a chicken. The worst was my own warm bird in Sorcha’s grille. i also spied a live, collared cat hunting in the deep shoulder off the expressway, and several more off-leash dogs wandering around more rural spaces. i like when the cows plod toward food with calves at their heels, and when i catch them playing in streams around midday. Or bathing each other with their weird cow tongues, the best. Sometimes i see sheep; they are big on staring. Nothing beats watching young deer romp, though. A treat.

Apparently if you spy a kestrel, even from the interior of the car, they will stare you down. i didn’t mean to win these staring contests but in my life i have never felt so seen by a winged creature. i couldn’t look away. i met two separate small raptors in the Holla Bend National Wildlife Refuge, where the lady at the desk wouldn’t let me pay the $2 fee because, “all the waterfowl go to the lake every day anyway, so you probably won’t see much.” She told me about how the eagles hunt in pairs, the first one startling a flock as the other swoops in to pin down the slowest bird. She also told me about biscuits with chocolate gravy for breakfast, and where to find elk. All the information was so spot on that maybe i’ll have to try those weird biscuits after all.

(CW: dead bird) This week i peed in the Cherokee National Forest, cruised through the Smoky Mountains, murdered a tufted titmouse with my car, got real lost in West Memphis (would not recommend), later found a waterfall i hadn’t planned on, and got yelled at by an eagle. i’ve cried like two and a half times, but i’ve gotta say my opinion of long-haul truckers has improved dramatically. Shoutout to the sole rainbow OR BLM sign i have seen since Asheville (!!!) and these puppy models who watched over me one night at a rest stop. Honorable mention goes to rooster Ed, who’s hangin in there.

i can certainly see for miles, but it feels more like days. A dog in the valley gets started this morning, which i guess is a Monday. There too is a cow sounding less than pleased, but how else do cows sound? In the pre-dawn light i dragged my cozy, dehydrated, melancholy self from the coccoon of Casa Sorcha (my Prius home) into the atrocious Walmart lights to brush my teeth in a bathroom stall, for COVID safety.

Sunrise over a river is pleasing in the way that makes you feel warm even when its warmth doesn’t reach you. Maybe that’s why the birds are even slower to wake than the cow. Warmth is scarce these days, worth waiting for.

i arrived on this height of rocky outcrop to a few forest band members calibrating their instruments. A coo, a caw, a cheep. Wind comes off tempo as the river runs massive and silent under the gaze of both sun and moon. All have all been here forever, just like this. How slow it all seems, broad and deliberate; in a rhythm kept by celestial objects, the river saunters on. As i take it all in, the full orchestra arrives. Off beat, maybe even off key, i can hear the slow crescendo of trills, toowhees, honks, the cow again. A woodpecker starts its day. Someone new is barking now.

For a while i was the only human, but a pair of people come along, one chatting about the kids playing on these very rocks in summer. The deeper of these voices sounds reflective as it says, “You know if we’d have chosen that other place we were thinkin about we prolly never would’ve made it here. Remember when I tried that Knoxville thing? That really freaked me out. That was probably the most freaked out I’ve ever been.” i can’t hear the exact reply but they sound happy with their lot, together, and they are deeply respectful of my space alone on the cliff.

A train now. Everyone’s day has begun. The waning gibbous moon fades into the blue as the sun’s warmth reaches me, tender.

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