fog.

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It was all very perfect.

I don’t say that often, but sometimes life hits you just right, and you live in it.

Up and down, through the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains. Fog, cutting through trees. It reminded me of how I pour icing on cinnamon rolls. Filling all the cracks, making things a little hazy, but all quiet.

I needed to see that horizon again.
Being on the road allows me to stare into them, push into them, dream into them.

I got to visit my dad, and I watched his garden grow.
I sat next to a girl who was very adamant letting everyone at the table know that she was the Chubacabra on NBC’s Grimm. We all drink some gin drinks and called it a night.

I cooked dinner for my dad and his wife. I petted their big dog Angus who has big sweet eyes and thinks he’s a human, sometimes.

I drove further up north and met some more friends and got some hugs from quite possibly the most beautiful little one. I cooked dinner there too and drink too much wine and talked about God and divorce and food.

All of which seem to be cut from the same fabric of our desire to learn about each other.

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I felt sad, a bit.

Like, really felt it. Like the way you feel when something sets in and there’s no way to stop it. You let it cut through you, like Appalachian fog.

I felt love though, too. Loads of it, in different forms. Through food and hugs and proximity.

I stared endlessly into those horizons, where I knew the curve of the Earth would never let it stop. So I kept driving. By rivers and more little mountains. I smelled the cool damp rock smell. It reminded me of the wild Oregon — the one I was haunted by. But not so much scared as unsure as to what it was all about.

There is still plenty of beauty here.
That’s what I came to realize.
I opened my heart and a lot of things got out and a lot of things got in.

That’s the way I like it.
Because I also learned I’ve gotta lot left to learn about myself and how I treat people.
About my intentions — my humanness — my icky insides that make me wanna hide, at times, from the messes I’ve made.

I remember my sister-in-law Leah used to say, “It was just your turn to spill…” when someone knocked over a glass.

And maybe, that’s what it feels like. A knocked over glass. A little ashamed of being clumsy with something. And a million times I think I could have moved another way. But I sit and think that we all spill over.

The road took me back to Mississippi.

Where it is warm and not as pretty as them foothills.
But it is where I am, and how I felt myself looking forward to settling back down there.

Road weary. Thankful. Ready to stretch. Ready to move, again.

I guess home has a way of doing that.

the tire and the steak

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“I’m never gonna make it home…”

That was my ultra-dramatic thought while my car was stranded on the side of a mountain. Really, I just wanted to make it to Amarillo for a big steak, when my tire lost tread and left us scratching our heads on the cold, dark side of Monarch Pass.

This was my big move! At least physically, from Oregon to Mississippi.

It was all very sad. Very big, and very sad.
My throat was tight with it all. Shoulders hunched at the longevity of such a journey.

Shedding things. Shedding weight. Shedding pieces of a previous life.

I was worried that I didn’t have the right tools to get my tire off. So when I heard it burst (**flop-flop-flop-flop-flop-flop**) while in the middle of a decent episode of This American Life, I felt hopeless. My guts started to tighten and release. I jammed up. I looked at Bryan. He looked at me. We got out and assessed the situation.

Damnit, I wanted that steak. (Was my first thought.)
Then, we were gonna lose our reservation at the hotel. (Meh.)

And last, I was so tired. A bit downtrodden. I just wanted to be home.

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No more bumps. I was overwhelmed with them. Too many things in my head, and no cell service. My brother-in-law was with me, and he sees these things as small adventures.

I see them as punches in the gut. He gets thrills out of small problems, and at this point, the steak was all I could think about.

We figured it out. And by we, I mostly mean Bryan, screaming at my VW owner’s manual, “THIS THING MAKES NO SENSE!” I laughed at this, because it’s true. And I did, only to discover in the middle of a long road trip, have all the tools necessary to change a tire. And my spare was superb, thank you very much.

I watched, as my belongings sat close to the curve where cars were zooming past. No mercy. Fast, fast, fast. My red stand mixer on top of some boxes that were falling apart. Strange things to see on the side of a road, I can imagine. But they were all my things. Pieces of my life I had deemed worthy to keep. They were moving with me, and I swear to God they weren’t going anywhere but with me.

We bought new tires in the next city we came to. The guy selling them to me kept swearing that there was, “no way that Jetta is a 1.8 Turbo…it’s gotta be an Audi engine. VW don’t make 1.8 Turbos!”

In the back of mind, I kept thinking, “Brotha, I really don’t give a sh*t.” I mean really, what does that have to do with tires?

The owner of the tire shop came up to file some paperwork. We said a few words, and he gave me the “Your life rides on them” bit about tires. I imagine he went home that night and told his wife he got to finally use that line.

My nerves were shot as it was; my hopes at making it in time for a steak were slowly dissolving. We were still four hours away, and cutting it close.

“We’re gonna make it!” I chant. I suppose it’s more of a grunt at this point.

Then we move from mountain to central time zone. Boom. Hour lost.

My hope sinks deeper than watching Frodo deciding to keep the Ring. I sit quiet for a minute.

The pain in my lower left back is shooting down my leg from sitting down so much in that cramped car.

I decide to keep going. “Let’s just see where we are in an hour…” I say.

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Bryan and I discuss the etiquette of eating at a restaurant 20 minutes before they close. As a cook, I am weary of the idea.

But I also know this place is a big tourist spot, and they’re probably used to goobers like me coming in. This is all just banter, as we approach the city. I say screw it.

“We’re gonna make it!”

Finally, we are sitting in the parking lot of this grossly decorated steak house. Honestly, borderline creepy/my own nightmare. Whatever, I just want a steak. It’s not even about the quality right now; this steak means victory.

We both march in, heads held not so high, because we realize we are cutting it close. We see the dishwasher sigh. It is quiet, even though there are tables still eating and still ordering.

We sit at our booth and the waitress walks up, “Well look who decided to sneak in here and come eat 20 minutes before close!” We laugh and shake our heads and say sorry in unison.

“We drove all the way from Grand Junction, Colorado to eat here!” saying half jokingly, but mostly serious. I’m a little too shy to look up, and give a smile.

We know what to do. And this is what you should do if you decide to eat at a place that is closing soon. Order fast. Eat…somewhat quickly, but comfortably. Pay fast, always tip well, and leave when you are done. Lingering is not a luxury at this point. But I don’t care.

I got to eat a steak.

And our waitress’ name was Lacey. She breathed Texas through every word she said, and I might be in love with her and the sheriff badge she had to wear on her cute plaid western shirt.

At least that’s what I said on the comment card she wanted us to fill out.

Okay, not really.

But I did give her a 10 out of 10.

the horizon.

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I saw my horizon.

Eight months ago, I sat slumped over in a bed, imagining what it might look like.
I knew it was important, that horizon. That moment I would be driving into it, with the sun slowing setting behind the curve of the earth.

Driving into some of the quietest parts of Colorado, I sat and stared into it. I remembered being so lost and down. How stuffy it was in that room, where everything happened. Where I imagined this part of my life changing in ways I’d never imagined.

If I was able to fall asleep, I would think about this horizon. My symbol of change. My symbol of moving.

The hills, waning and waxing like the moon.

I kept my eyes on the horizon.

Post-sunset_horizon_from_aircraft

I thought deep about my pain. Those hard goodbyes where all I wanted to say was this: Thank you. Thank you for taking care of me.

So much pain in goodbyes.

But I kept my eyes on that horizon.

I passed some buffalo, quiet but strong as they stomped through the tall grass. They didn’t mind me pulling over to watch for a while. It was kind of lonely out there. I’m sure a couple of weary travelers marveling at their grace and enormity was okay.

I started feeling stronger. More at rest. Less weary, more so ready to get goin’ – that’s what I would say. “Ah, gotta keep goin’ gotta keep movin’.”

And so we drove. A busted tire on the side of a white mountain. All of my belongings hanging on Monarch Pass — I reevaluated their worth. My stand mixer sitting alongside some cookbooks and an old writer’s box that I hold very dear to me.

We kept moving.

I realized the horizon never ends.

Which is why, in the depth of my sadness, it was all I could see. Something to move towards. Something that would take me to another place.

And now, I find myself resting on a bed, deep in the belly of Mississippi. Tired. Sad. Excited. Relaxed. Ready.

Ready for what might happen next…

ready to steady the wheel on that horizon.