September 18, 2006

A woman once said of grief that you don't get over it, you get used to it. The same holds for homesickness, at least in my present case. And it isn't just the absence of those I love (just!), it is also being sick of cold food eaten straight from the can, of using a latrine I dug myself the night before on cold wet mornings, of having to eat a greasy breakfast in a diner so I can have a hot coffee, the brief friendliness of a waitress, and a place to wash my hands. I look forward to seeing panhandlers, for their conversation, bought for fifty cents. There have been mornings that I get on the rig (of which the bicycle is a small part) and resume my crawl sout because I simply don't have the strength to turn around.

What compensates this and keeps me gong? I meet friendly people every day who take great interest in this venture and wish me well. I see incredible beauty on the back roads. I have the opportunity to write and meditate. And I have Erin's wholehearted support.