The Road Less Travelled

It was an odd sensation to wake early Sunday morning with the car packed and the bikes strapped to the back and head north rather than east.  I am used to the view of the sunrise across eastern Arizona's high desert, the old landmarks that signal the start of summer vacation.

Instead we went north, which made me a little jumpy.

But I wasn't the only one.

It took us a while to hit our roadtripping stride and we stopped at almost every little town along the way, to find caffeine, or take a potty break, or find gas and food, or retie the straps on the car top carrier.  It was a difficult beginning, but by the time we crossed the Colorado we finally found our groove.

We stopped to see my grandmother, in the final days of her life on earth.  She looked as fragile as my children at birth.  Standing next to her bed, I was reminded of those first moments of life, when they were all bones and skin and their eyes did all the talking.  I remember holding them and begging for them to tell me everything they knew, to fill me in on the secrets of eternity as we stared at each other, their dark eyes both bemused and stunned by their arrival.  Saying goodbye has a very similar feel to saying hello.

And despite my begging, it is hard at birth or death to communicate anything except love.  I love you.  I love you, too.  Perhaps this is the secret of eternity.

We tucked in last night nestled between the mountains of Park City and woke to a breathtaking view.  When I opened the blinds I started laughing.  I never get over the wonder of road trips.

I woke this morning in a new world. 

I am both bemused and stunned.