Saturday, May 12, 2012


It might be that if my life were to end in the short-term, I would deeply regret that my travels were confined to only the United States - aaaaand a memorable, ill-advised trip to Mexico.  If my travels were to conclude today, I can say I survived the treacherous surf off the coast of California, and swam with wild dolphins in Hawaii.  I dove through shallow waves full of thousands of jellyfish (in ignorance) in the Gulf of Mexico.  I waded into the Atlantic and napped alone beside the sighing waves.  I crossed the Rocky Mountains many times and camped in the Badlands of South Dakota twice.  I saw Gregg Allman perform in person on a cool southern night in North Carolina, and bought yellow root at an enormous farmers market in Atlanta, Georgia.  I drove through the aromatic night air of Tennessee and Kentucky with tobacco drying in almost every barn.  I saw pure white bales of cotton for the first time in South Carolina.  I wanted to pick a boll at the edge of a harvested field but I dared not trespass.  I swam in the turquoise waters of Acapulco and marveled at the green patchwork fields of Indian farmers in the central mountains of Mexico.  I prayed in the Medicine Wheel in the Big Horn Mountains, and put down tobacco at Bear Butte.  I have to say, when a long stretch of highway disappears far into the distance, a mighty wanderlust possesses me and I wish for the freedom to go wherever it leads.

My spirit has always been of two notions - the solid earth and grounded Capricorn energy tethering me to my responsibilities and obligations, and the mystic poet's soul, an Indian spirit from another time grieving for something irretrievable and forever lost.  There are some who say I will return again and again until the grief is cleared, or the debt paid, forgiveness is granted, or perhaps received.  But I honestly do not know. 

I hope I last long enough to clear that grief and die a free spirit.  I hope I last long enough to travel, right up until the very end. 

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