I'm on the threshold of beginning my 100 day writing pilgrimage à la road trip across the US.

I just took a couple days at Joshua Tree National Park as a kind of staging area to get ready. A friend and I explored the desert, watched storms, climbed rocks, stargazed, listened to music, and talked in that way you used to at sleepovers as a kid when time with friends wasn't limited to two hours once a month or three at a pre-determined place to have a pre-determined experience after a dozen text exchanges to find a time that worked for both of your busy lives.

It was amazing. It made me wonder how we ever got so far away from the kind of connection that makes us feel happiest, most alive, and most seen.

At the end of the trip, my friend asked me where I was headed that day or the next for the beginning of my journey.

I don't know, I said.

-

I’ve been thinking about how that's been the most common answer to questions I've gotten about this trip:

“Where are you starting?”

I don't know.

“But where will you stay the night?”

I'm not sure.

“Will you visit ___ or ___?”

I dunno.

“How will you do ___ or ___?”

*Shrugs shoulders*

-

I don't want to give the impression that I'm doing this all on a whim. That I haven't given it any thought at all.

Quite the opposite.

For well over a year, I've been thinking about what this kind of experience could look like. I've been making list upon list of literary sites and writing friends and author events and open mics and indie bookstores, but I haven't actually committed to anything.

I've packed my car with my favorite books and new books and fresh notebooks and old notebooks and my laptop and stationary and envelopes. I've got a sleep setup in the back and enough snacks to keep my grumpies down.

I've got countless pages I've written about what I hope to do on this trip, from the places I've listed to the themes and questions I want to explore.

But I also know this:

I've just lived a year and a half of complete uncertainty, of moving from place to place every few months without knowing what's next, from California to Spain to Michigan to California again. Without the community or support I needed for most of that time. Without knowing if things would get better.

And it's taken a toll on me. Pushed me to the edges of the best and worst parts of myself. Made me question who I was and what I even wanted out of life anymore, if anything.

I don't know if that experience has made me more comfortable with uncertainty and that's why I'm leaning into it, or if it's more that I've just become so tired and wary of trying to ever control anything or have expectations or get my hopes up again.

It's an intense time to be emarking on such a trip, and alone, and sometimes I wonder if I'm actually ready or if I should put it off.

But I always come back to this tug in my gut that reminds me of how I felt when I found the North Star after my friend taught me how at 2 AM on our last night at the park.

Maybe I already have my compass right in front of me, and I just need to remember to look up when I feel lost. It might not always be visible, but it's there. It might get cloudy, but I can trust it'll clear eventually.

Because that is one thing I know for certain and can rely on:

Nothing ever lasts.

Not the good, not the bad. Not the clouds.

Nothing.

I can either let that truth paralyze me and keep me small, or I can get in my damn car and hit the road knowing that inner and outer storms are inevitable, that I'll get caught in them no matter how much I try to avoid them, but that they will eventually pass.

And meanwhile, the only thing I can truly control is how I respond to them.

So I guess the hope I’ll allow myself on this trip is that I'll remember to look up for a reminder of these truths whenever I lose my way, because I will, and maybe a little glimmer of guidance will be all I need to reorient myself so I can keep moving forward.

-

Time to go.