Alchemic Verse

The next two stays were temporary spots for a night each; the rest and relaxation provided by the cabin was paramount to this portion of the trip, enabling me to take on more miles each jump. 5 hours of driving followed, and while I wrote at only 8:00pm local time, I could have easily fallen deeply asleep from the exertion. The drive was solemn like the previous, and I was unable to avoid deeply diving in my thoughts throughout.

Nonetheless, I visited two states I had never been to before and drove through their horizons for an hour, crossing two rivers. On that stretch, I saw sprawling fields of cotton for the first time, the contrast of dark gnarled branches at the base with purest powder puff blossoms at the tips. I saw towering windmills swing slowly over violent threshers, kicking up whirling dirt devils as they passed through fields of grain. I drove through a town with a population of 120 people and marveled at the trees on either side, towering and ancient over the few homes low and hidden by thick green. The leaves were just starting to turn there for autumn, and I suspected that as I sailed further I would observe symbols and signs of my favorite season in the colors that cover the mountains and line the roads.

I could have focused on my aching tailbone, on the growing headache behind my strained eyes, on the heaviness of the battered spirit that led me on this journey in the first place. For a time I did, the human aspects winning over the ardent attempts to supercede, and while my shuffled library of music surfaced numerous favorites, I rarely found the pleasure to sing along with them.

I stayed on the outskirts of an unfamiliar city, sinking into another burbling hot tub to ease the ache of the drive in preparation for the following drive, which promised much of the same tension ad nauseum.

Given my proximity to civilization, I also took the opportunity to order in some local BBQ and ate it while nearly supine, knowing the truly remote areas to follow would require more supplies and cooking.

My sweet dog had been such a brave little traveler, such a trooper, and such a comfort. She was highly affectionate and protective each moment as we made our way to our next destination. I try to imagine it all from her perspective, the first year or so of her life having been spent abandoned on the winter streets of a northern city, starving and sick. Somehow, she never gave in to the fear, resentment, or sadness of her circumstances, and from the very day that she chose me as her momma, she has been a beacon of love and hope.

A long time ago, an old friend sent me a song by the band Live titled “Feel the Quiet River Rage.” He sent me that song telling me that the lyrics reminded him of me. He said that he saw me as someone who had experienced some of the worst of humanity, and still chose to be friendly, open, and loving in defiance of the cruelty I had been shown. Junebug and I are well matched that way. “Always suffers the wound/never turns from love/never turns to hate” – a lofty and earnest compliment of which I hope to be worthy. Resentment and grudges are poison that only we drink by carrying them, and the only true healing comes by releasing the instinct to bite every hand as if it was the same hand that struck you. In that way, my dog serves as a good mentor and those lyrics a solid mantra.

6 hours more of sailing took me through some of the most breathtaking places I’ve ever seen, and some headscratching ones. The road began flat as anything with the horizon completely visible for miles, the road seeming to mirror the sky or bleed into it in rippling mirages. Next, I passed a sign that read “Drive Thru Prayer Saturday,” which is easily one of the strangest concepts I could imagine, another convenient commodification of worship. I suppose the other side of my cynical coin is that such an offering makes God more available to more people. Regardless, that and the sign that read “2 million pounds of crabs served and counting” are the top two oddest signs I’d seen on my voyage.

Slowly, the landscape started to change; the roads began to curve sharply, to climb and fall, making my ears pop with each drastic change in elevation. Sprawling fields of yellowing beans gave way to cragged rocks, complete with “Falling Rock” warnings, towering peaks, and trees shifting into the hues of flame – canary, ochre and crimson for the season. One road was lined with grasses taller than the ship, tipped with feathered fronds of amethyst, while another was edged with angular teeth of what looked to be shale.

The world’s bravest little travel dog snored softly in the back regardless of the song I made the effort to boisterously sing or smile through, and while the 6 hours had cast their damage on my eyes and my back, landing me flat in the folding-out-of-the-wall murphy bed of our following stop, each minute I chose the perspective “a gift, to be alive to see something so beautiful.”

How fortunate am I to be able to see so much beauty while others never get the chance to leave their hometown, or others still, their beds?

Traveling to all of these places I’ve come to appreciate not only the natural beauty, but how similar people are fundamentally regardless of their accent, background or affiliations. Stopping to use the restroom, a gas station clerk smiled at me like I was her best friend and answered with an accent so thick that I barely understood her.

Nonetheless, her humanity and mine when weighed on a balance would be identical. Each of the people I pass goes home to people or animals or hobbies that they care about, each of them has fears and hopes and hurts and desires. Fundamentally, our sameness is so much greater than our difference.

The following day promised another 6 hours maybe 7 of new remote visions, of the feeling of Mother Earth being a cradle beneath our ship. I ended my writing that night with a simple wish – “May we be carried to safety on the other side of another sail in deep reflection, as the days prior.”