Driving back up on the 5, I heard a song erupting in the meadows. The windows were down and the air was heavy with the scent of wildflowers. I’d been driving long, winding single lane country roads for forty miles, these long expanses of California farmland, green as far as the eye could see. And I swear, I could have heard singing.
Oh my God, I’m cold. I guess I didn’t imagine this on my retreat. 30MPH gusts blowing at me, stinging my face with snow bits. Nature is beautiful yet harsh, and I realize that the City Boy in me is not quite cut out for this. We aren’t in Oakland any more.
Push and pull, move and wait. I’m in a season of waiting, of settling down. One moment moving, one moment heads-down dealing with the day-to-day, one moment being allowed (a little) to plan and to dream.
Paris, I confess I don’t really get you. I mean, it’s amazing being here, walking your cobblestone streets, taking in the sights and sounds. Your language is beautiful, melodic, and silky, so much so that I’m embarrassed when I try to speak it — the words kind of slip out of my mouth and I lower my voice to avoid the embarrassment of mispronunciation (several people have assumed that I’ve simply grunted, and for some reason my face has flushed red).
Steep Ravine 50K
To be honest? This year felt a little like autopilot. Like I was caught dealing with Life as it happened, doing a zillion different things (like I always do) and realizing that I needed to catch up with the changes. At times, this year felt like waiting for things to happen to me. Does that make sense?