When I started this three month road trip I bought a new journal. The same little black kind I took to New Zealand, and covered in memories from the trip. The same kind I have used for the two years since. The same kind I will use, and cover with memories from this trip. I have written in it everyday. Always with more stories then I have energy to write. But I haven't said anything. Recounting events with little of my soul transfering to the page.
I came on this trip to breath. Hoping that if I could just expose my soul to enough beauty it would reboot it somehow. That some how, breathing and lingering and resting would mend the scars of the last two years. I am finding beauty every where. From the expected destinations to a million unexpected corners. I have gasped or dropped my jaw more times then I can count in the week I have been on the road. But my soul hasn't moved, hasn't breathed or even taken notice.
Yesterday was the anniversary of the start of it all. The day two years ago when God made a statement, and I called him a liar. It was the first in a long line of dominos of things I once called certain. So in front of a campfire in the middle of the desert I pulled out my little black journal that holds the last two years. And remembered. Hinesight is like truth. It can set you free, but might hurt like hell in the process. I found me in the last two years, buried under a sea of fear and lies. But at a cost I was never prepaired to pay. I wouldn't change it, but I don't know how to mend it either. I found out this week mourning is going to play a part.
So today I will keep driving and keep talking to a God I know so little of. The world feels real out here. Seattle High is distant and shrinking in the rear view mirror. Choices feel as endless as the miles of pavement. And hope seems to be hanging somewhere on the horrizon.
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