Alchemic Verse

The final stay before the period of intended rest and comfort admittedly had some voice-to-text notes like the prior posts, but upon review they largely consisted of a tired and circular rehashing of prior sentiments – wonder battling worry, hope fighting hardening, gratitude grappling grief.

Recalling now, the final drive-sleep-drive sandwich was a tough 36 or so hours, so road weary and ready for a soft landing. Several stops along Drive One yielded false search results relative to coffee, found closed restrooms, and renewed my wishes for the technology of teleportation, regardless of the Ship of Theseus argument posed by the idea of every cell becoming completely disassembled and reconstructed in a new location. Knowing one more sleep was between us and a period of peace, there was looming awareness that the final leg would be the longest yet, skipping the extra two-night stop I’d previously booked and driving directly to the end.

The last spot was easy to find, at least, and featured a pretty backyard embraced by a tall treeline where I sought renewal after arrival. I remember muttering my thoughts into the phone while swaying on a linen swing beneath a pergola strung with amber Edison bulbs.

I searched the broad patch of green beneath my feet for a four-leaf clover with the same focus as I used to as a child – eager to find some extra luck, while the pup roamed and sniffed. Evidently, she must have wandered too far for my comfort, as the voice-to-text ends with a segment reading “Juniper come here Junebug Juniper stay with me please.”

The wind at twilight was a cool caress, and after the sun disappeared below the swaying treeline, the acoustics gifted by the uninterrupted hard surfaces of the kitchen encouraged some reverby singing practice. The progress of consistency and small steps drove me to spend the last of my energy this way, with an early bedtime as there was no need to delay our morning departure for the longhaul to follow.

That last drive I remember mostly as stressy, holding fragile wishes for what I would find at the end while navigating seemingly endless traffic and construction. I remember staring at the minutes and miles to destination, trying to stretch, mentally shoring up with plans of familiar comfort, and hard-shifting my thoughts to be hopeful about whatever would come next. Interestingly enough, I arrived at the exact time Google lists as the true Autumnal Equinox and, without unpacking at all, I collapsed onto the couch.

Epilogue

Ten states traveled, more than 24 hours of driving, and a couple thousand miles covered, I arrived at a port of familiarity, seeking comfort and refuge from the adventures of a long time at “sea.” The pivot that started the journey and the pivot that changed my course had taken its toll.

The weeks since have been spent trying to experience that calm for which I’d become desperate. Resting, visiting familiar places, seeking out familiar faces, and listening inwardly for the next steps became a daily practice, alongside trying to forge routines and stability.

While I wish the result had been the comforting rest I craved, what I found was something different, a timeworn clarity, and no shortage of emotional rendering. The favorite comforting places admittedly felt empty of their former magic, conflict arose where inflexibility reigned, and the remaining familiar faces, still deeply cared for across any space and time, wore unfamiliar countenance, unable to reconcile my outstretched arms with those the person they knew before.

It felt something like trying to pull on a favorite sentimental hoodie that no longer fits, binding across the chest and shoulders, itchy and pilled. You still remember how it felt to wear it before, how warm it was, but you can’t move around in it now. The hoodie remembered in the present tense fits more like a straightjacket. When what used to surround you in comfort cannot do so any longer, when trying to stretch for the mental and physical space to rest results in tearing the cherished hoodie’s seams, what then?

The only thing to do next, is to pivot again – to find the comfort within yourself, and carry hope to the next port; to fold the hoodie carefully, and cherish it with the understanding that it’s better kept preserved than torn apart in the wearing. I’m grateful for the experience, to have found it again, understanding its comfort can and will always be appreciated, if in a different way, with my new face mirrored in the glass of its frame.

Soon again the anchor will be weighed, the new course charted. This time, I sail by the inner compass that always points to my heart, the needle fixed on home.