[In full disclosure, this post was written over a couple of days, with intermittent and international wi-fi coverage...and by now it barely makes sense to publish it at all. And yet, here I am doing it anyway.]
Thursday morning
I was going to share a photo on Instagram this morning, but found I had more to say than the little caption box is designed to hold. Instagram is not really my preferred format anyway, as evidenced by my pitiful collection of photos. Given the choice, I will choose the 1000 words over the substitute. Every time.
We just passed the 45th parallel, exactly halfway between the equator and the North Pole, and I am carsick. Out of practice, I suppose.
The green hills and bouncy clouds of Oregon look exactly as we left them nearly four years ago. Keeping vigil until our return. The grasses are slowly turning into pines the closer we get to the Pacific. No wonder Lewis and Clark kept going. Every mile is more beautiful than the last. Of course these hills will be shaved bare again before we see the tides. I love the dressing and undressing of rolling hills. These road trip stripteases never get old.
Friday
Early last evening we made it to the northern end of Washington, Oregon's dark, foreboding cousin. The greens are deeper, more menacing, and capable of swallowing you whole if you step too far off the road. It was a shock to step out of the car into the damp and the chill and David and I were forced to climb up and untie the car-top carrier to find jeans and socks and close-toed shoes. (Though on the morning news they were talking about the heat wave and I couldn't stop laughing.)
We woke this morning to somebody blowing the fog horn over and over, long and low, and the gulls calling. It already feels like we're in a foreign country even though we haven't yet crossed the watery border a mile or so into the Pacific. We are headed north. As far north as we can get. When your backyard is as hot as the surface of the sun, the only thing to do is head north. And as Caleb reminded me in southern Idaho, the earth turns slower the closer we get to the pole. Just what I had in mind. More time together, more savoring, elongate each gorgeous, precious moment, roll around in it. I am determined to make the sun stand still.
I feel like I ought to say something about my long absence from blogging, rather than dumping you directly into our vacation. My life seems pretty magical when the posts go from holiday to holiday, eh? (Look, I'm already speaking Canadian!) But now there is too much--too much to say, too much to remember--and the last few months have been like a wildfire, burning out large swaths of my memory and leaving only a few stubby highlights among the smoldering, smoking ruins.
There was school and work and church and lessons and school musicals and finals and an endless lineup of orchestra concerts. Though to say it in one sentence like that does nothing to convey the heat and terror of the firefight. I also happened to throw an Indian-themed wedding for my youngest sister. I didn't sleep during the entire month of May. Mostly from searing and unrelenting fear. My own mind can be a fearsome thing at three in the morning. You will be surprised to learn that this made me mildly difficult to live with. Despite my worries (and David's collateral suffering) it turned out lovely. People who happened by slowed down and got out of their cars to crane their necks at all that love and beauty.
And then finally, blessedly, the fire was out. Summer was here and puzzles and games and movie marathons became the most pressing issues of every day. And slowly, I have learned to sleep again. Ten minutes more every day. Soon I will be downright slothful.
Best of all, here we are in line to board the ferry to British Columbia. We are headed out to sea, straight into the fog. North, like I said. Inside my head they are playing a rousing rendition of "O, Canada" and outside my head the earth is slowing down as it arcs along its orbit through space.
One slow, lazy, glorious turn at a time.
