There are 1,443 miles between my house and my brothers house. I make the trip at least once a year. This year I’ve driven it twice. I used to fly because it’s quicker, but now I prefer to drive. Driving allows me the opportunity to take my french bulldog, Fergus with me (it’s hard to find anyone that truly wants to watch him, he’s a bit ummmmm…. special).
It also lets me spend a lot of time with myself. Thinking, dreaming, planning, scheming, singing at the top of my voice, meditating on the endless numbers of colors in our incredible world, wondering at the natural design of mesas and joshua trees, rolling down the windows and smelling the cool evening air. Alone with my thoughts, I am free to go as far with them as I want to or stay as focused on a single detail just as easily. I remember things that I thought that I had forgotten, gathering lost thoughts like a spring bouquet. I think silly things and serious things, I remember people that I haven’t talked to or seen in a while or people whom I’ve lost in my life, remembering the good and sad. I sort through regrets and sorrows, victories and wishes for my future. I think about the Creator a lot. Sometimes have conversations with Her/Him. I have conversations in my head and sometimes out loud with characters as diverse as Ghandi and Picasso. I ask questions and imagine replies. Sometimes the conversation is with myself. Giving myself advice about staying focused and then laugh at the absurdity of that notion.
With every one of these trips I get know myself better, come to terms with my oddities and learn to appreciate who I am. As I greet the sun, or watch it sink below the horizon I am reminded to be grateful for the opportunity to spend 1,443 miles with myself.