A Totally Timeless Trip Together

The bright afternoon sun had begun to sink softly down to the horizon, lazily easing into the golden hour, painting everything in its path with the unmistakable warmth distinct to the moment before pastels grow from and reflect on the westernmost water. We walked along the sand to the low cadence of waves lapping the shore, hand in hand, absently people watching while discussing nothing of real importance. I travelled by his side, felt the sand caressing my toes, and noted how quickly he was walking. I found myself grinning at his casual urgency, surprised at my eagerness to keep pace.


He selected a spot and we sat facing the ocean. He pulled me to his chest, and I rested my cheek against him, listening to his heart beat as I watched the sky soften to a light purple hue. We sat this way for some time, with no concept of hours or minutes, no deadlines, no appointments, just the two of us sitting in the cool sand, watching as the Santa Monica Pier came alive in a brilliant flash of green and red.


He lay back onto the sand, and I could no longer make out his eyes from under his dark hood. I studied him as he lay, his shoulders, his neck, his hands folded over his abdomen, his legs reaching to each side of me. I watched and admired, silently thinking of the interesting course the Universe had chosen for our lives: where I had been, where we would go. Just as I studied his contours, so I studied the scenery.


A lean young man armed solely with board shorts and untamed blond curls trotted by, playing chicken with waves who halfheartedly tried to catch him. He left light footprints that quickly disappeared with each approaching wave. I could feel his connection with the earth, and understood his desire to run free, with his toes digging into the packed sand along the surging water's edge. I looked at my own feet, half buried in the soft, dry sand, making the same connection.


As I watched the man continue jogging down the beach, I was struck by the timelessness of the moment. Through history man and nature have joined in a mutual understanding of barefoot running. My thoughts of unity with earth were interrupted by two girls, also running, that moved into view. Both had long, straight, dark hair restrained by elastic bands, headphones in their ears, expensive sneakers on their feet, and glaring white rectangles tied around their arms. I smiled, a little sadly, as they would never understand why I run without music, listening to what my body and mother nature have to tell me.


I watched the new age runners move towards the brilliantly flashing Ferris wheel of the pier. Closing my eyes, I concentrated on the smell of him and the sea, both unbridled and tempting my senses. When I opened them, I saw the silhouette of a man approaching. He wore large headphones, and held a long pole in his hand with a round disc at the bottom, which he wove back and forth along the surface of the sand. I chuckled, a silent laugh concentrated in my diaphragm, as I remembered my many hours waving a similar contraption over the sand as a child with my father, searching for something...anything that could be considered valuable. I was suddenly five years old again, watching the man with my full attention, willing him to find a coin so I could share in his revelry. He continued on unsuccessfully, a mere shadow against the brightly lit buildings behind him.


I couldn't help but shake my head slightly as I recognized the past and present brought together over this beautiful man's resting frame in the sand. Tempted to lie with him and listen to his heartbeat once more, I watched him. As if he felt my yearn to touch him, he rose to his elbows, met my eyes, and pushed his way back up to a sitting position, gathered me into his arms, and leaned his forehead against mine.


In that moment, I felt his energy more strongly than ever before, a warm, bright light that travelled through me, awakening every sense, every inch of my being, infiltrating my thoughts, my anxieties, and fears, simultaneously calming and exciting them. His energy coursing through my veins as I felt mine in his.


We stayed that way, eyes closed, feeling each other's light until he turned to me and spoke, "How many more beautiful places will we see together like this?"


"Many, many, many," I smiled.


"Promesas?"


"Te prometo." I leaned my head on his chest, and closed my eyes, listening to the song of the waves over his drumming heart, a moment of timeless perfection.

Stark Stabbing Shame

I saw them as I parked at the ferry terminal running as fast as they could. They stopped, a brown man and a white man, both stocky, both panting, both beaming. The brown man stuck his chest out talking shit about how much faster he was. The white one made excuses...something about the wind, like he'd win if they ran again. I've seen this before many many times. They both wore thin, crudely designed crew cut tan t-shirts. Both sported hair that dared not touch their ears.

When I saw them, part of me was drawn, part repelled. I had the option of grabbing my I.D. or avoiding the subject. I left my I.D. in the car, suddenly relieved my purple heart license plate was facing the opposite direction. What I felt was somewhere between a fleeting pride in brother/sisterhood and a stabbing shame in the same.

I boarded the ship without a second thought of the gentlemen. It was to be a 4.5 hour trip to Juneau on the slow ferry, but it was beginning to look like it might take closer to 5.5 as I sat in the dining hall waiting for the boat to finally leave the dock. My mind drifted slowly through the happenings of the previous weeks, elation, depression, dancing, inspiration, suicide, river, eagles, alcohol, pain, friendships, life, love, meaning, family, and the trip I was about to take...marriage. I let my eyes scan the room. I took time to meet Max, a Frenchman riding the ferry to Ketchikan and Marita, a girl from Austria who'd contacted me on couchsurfing.org desperate for help the morning prior. I also saw Pat and Erin, two of my four hitchhikers I had picked up on my drive from Whitehorse to Haines.

Erin gave me a bracelet she had just made for me in gratitude of the ride for which they had been waiting since morning. I smiled to myself because traveler karma never ceases to amaze me. I will always grin at the red, yellow, and black pattern against my skin, and fondly remember taking them through the border...watching the astonished look on the border patrol officer's face when he asked how we know each other, and I told him we didn't...that they were hitchhikers.

I sat in the solarium on a lawn chair, reading The Help, a book given to me by Katie Farnam in return for The Sound of Music, which I passed to her in South Dakota after she and her mother took care of Tommy and myself in their camper. Katie is the daughter of the camp host at Wind Cave's campground. A brilliantly aware young mind of 11 years, she's a child that reads, travels, camps, bikes, explores, and plays outdoors. A child that doesn't own a cellphone...doesn't WANT a cellphone. SO rare these days. I bet there's no way they could diagnose her with A.D.D. since she's actually outside playing daily, burning energy and not sitting sedentary in front of a television nightly.

Shame. I digress.

I made my way to the bar and sipped a bloody mary while chatting with an Australian man who piqued my interest when he responded to the bartender with a disbelieving, "Come on now! My country's much more developed than that! We've got refrigerators and such! We HAVE ice!" I shook my head. Another American, another silly question. No wonder the rest of the world laughs at us. Pride and shame. Shame reigns the strongest most times.

I left the bar intending to continue reading in the fresh air of the solarium. What is Minny going to do to Miss Hilly? However, I happened upon the brown man and white man from the parking lot on the way. I stopped, knowing I shouldn't. We chatted. I gleaned their names are Marvell and...well, I forgot the other guy's name. They are part of the active guard reserves in Juneau. MPs. They were bragging about their new HMMWVs that were tan colored and uparmored! How exciting! They talked to me as if I wouldn't understand their acronyms. I almost gave myself up when asking questions that I probably shouldn't have known how to ask. I need to work on that. They asked me if I was an investigating Colonel. Me? A Colonel? I guess I'm the first 28 year old female Colonel with blue and purple crazy hair the army's ever seen!

Somehow it came about that I speak languages. The first response from Marvell?

"You should join the army!"

"Why? Because I speak languages?"

"Yeah, you could be an interpreter!"

"Uh...and do what? And go where? Iraq? Afghanistan?"

"Yeah, you'll go, but you'll own it. It'll be nothing."

ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME? IT'LL BE FUCKING NOTHING? I ALMOST DIED MULTIPLE TIMES! MY FRIENDS ARE FUCKED, OFFING THEMSELVES! MY PARENTS OWN A WATER BOTTLE AND AN ALICE PACK WITH 3 HOLES BLOWN THROUGH IT THAT ONCE BELONGED TO ME! I BARELY SLEEP, AND THE VA COULDN'T GIVE TWO SHITS! IS THIS HOW YOU'RE RECRUITING CHILDREN? WITH STRAIGHT UP LIES? SHAME ON YOU!

Instead, I respond calmly, "No. I'm pretty sure the army's not for me."

He questions this, like he knows something about me I haven't figured out on my own, claiming the army needs somebody like me.

I respond simply, "Wouldn't I have to change my hair color? I'm simply not willing to do that...and I'd have to take off my jewelry. Not an option."

He asks to see my bracelets. he looks at them, completely missing Dick Winters' band and my Wounded Warrior Project band.

Nice attention to detail, Fuck Face.

"You wouldn't part with...those?" he questions disbelievingly.

"Yeah. I don't think it's for me." Simple. Concise.

"Well, I guess you're right. The Army's not for everyone." I'm guessing he realizes I'm not going to be won over.

I shift the conversation to couchsurfing and hitchhiking. Marvell couldn't seem to wrap his mind around helping someone on the side of the road that wasn't a woman who looked like me. This may have been the 100th point when I realized we could probably never see eye to eye on 99.2% of anything we could ever possibly discuss outside of potential good tasting food...although he also told me he didn't like sushi. To that I screamed, "COMMUNIST!!!!" Not really, but almost.

He, however, failed to see these disconnects, probably because he was concerned with the pretty smile I credit solely to my parents. I'm not sure he even noticed its slow transformation into an impatient, patronizing smirk. I was saved by the bell, literally, as we docked in Auke Bay, where I had previously made plans to meet with three very like minded people. People who wouldn't recommend I join the service under any circumstances.

He asked for my number by stating, "You should call me," as if it's a researched and supported fact. Really? Should I? He tells me he wants to know me, and I can't help it. I am compelled to tell him that we are completely different breeds of person. He's confused, and so I decided to write this as a clarification.

I am NOT an aspiring teen looking to become Demi Moore. I'm not dreaming of becoming G.I. Jane. Not anymore. I am now a wounded vet proud to be free of an oppressive institution, Hellbent on repaying the world the debt I feel I incurred by having served one of the most close minded, wickedly corrupt organizations in the world for 8.5 years...Rather 8 years 5 months and 29 days. I embrace my freedom to be who I want to be, wear what I want to wear, as well as travel and change my hair color on a whim. There is no amount of persuading that could convince me otherwise. That's supposedly the perk of a"free country" like America, right? While I could be arrested and labelled a sex offender for having a naked cup of coffee in my own home, I also have the "right" to consider military solutions problems in themselves.

I don't regret any choices I've made in life, but that certainly doesn't mean I am proud of them all.

David Sirota said it best, "Why is violence and murder designed to incite fear and affect political change never called terrorism when it's committed by white people?" There is a stark stabbing shame that comes with an association with an organization promoting terrorism under the guise of fighting it...calling it COIN. Fuck COIN. It's war. It's wrong, and I want no part in it.

Sharing Social Senselessness

The beat enters my soul by way of cartilage canal, caressing smooth curves, coursing through veins, creating warmth, riding the raging current straight to my heart, adding to flexing ventricles a uniqueness recognized only by those living in tune.

It infiltrates my nervous system, rocking my body with rhythm, making my fingers tingle, my feet twitch, tickling and tempting my senses until I can no longer control my excitement.

I burst.

I dance.

He stops mid step, eyes narrowing, judging, confused by my lack of sense. No sense is made dancing in a busy street. Sense is reserved for social norms, for caged hamsters on an endless wheel, for controlled, drugged lab rats in a maze, consistently chasing figments of cheddar.

My smile flashes, genuine. His smirk responds, unsure and hesitant. I laugh. He breaks eye contact, sternly shaking his head. He grunts in disapproval.

I continue to follow my base line.

She stops, noticeably nods, and immediately begins to open her heart with a friendly grin, inviting my energy to ease into her spirit. I watch as she releases the strain of her day, allowing her tensions to slip into the warm spring breeze, to be carried into the clouds, and I know then that we are enjoying the same music.

A Classically Catastrophic Cancer Called Katy

Hiding under a careless facade, she's surprisingly small, loud but timid, bold but meek, laughing but silently whimpering for more than fleeting attention.

She's average. Small frame, large teeth, slight mustache, but has beautiful, even stunning windows to her soul. Except an average passerby may miss her soul completely, distracted by the layers of gaudy makeup marring the view.

She commands attention with her presence, though not her poise. Negative attention will suffice when admiration is absent, and she demands it in a loud declaration of negativity. No matter the subject. No matter the location. People gawk, in awe, though not positively impressed. So small, yet so crass. Startlingly obtuse, yet completely unaware of her condition.

A raindrop is a thunderstorm, a bright day too cold. A smile froth with condescension, a glance full of contempt. She repels most, but attracts a needy select few and to them she clings, a cancerous tumor. Stealing their individuality, she monopolizes their time, cutting them off slowly from outsiders, filling their heads with fresh new negativity, metastasizing faster than projected. The life expectancy of former relationships is cut short by her erratic growth, and her host is left utterly alone, save for her malignant company.

When her host finally recognizes her cankerous presence as the cause of pain, solitude, and angst, it's too late. No amount of intensive care will revive past connections, since severed, shriveled, and decomposed. Suddenly alone and aware, her host is trapped and unhappily disconnected from those that made her smile in the past. With nowhere to go and nobody left to turn, the host is faced with a painful decision. Extract the negativity from her life and begin anew with the involved treatment or continue down the same path knowingly and resign herself to fate. Awareness has changed her perceptions, however, and now the loud, bold, crass, attention seeking facade has ceased being attractive. Now a blaring embarrassment, it has become hard to ignore.

Choosing the operation over certain death of character, the recovery is long, painful, and slow, as the cancer tries again and again to relapse, begging, pleading, lashing out, attacking, harassing, grasping, always threatening. As the host gains her strength of personality back, she is emboldened by the positive change, and finds herself rejecting the dejected tumor more easily than ever. She revels in appreciating a raindrop for its properties of renewal and cleansing, a bright day for the sun's warming effect on the soul. A smile is taken at face value, as a glance is met with a smile of her own. A smile that reflects her renewed health and joy.

The classic catastrophe, however, is in the disease, who sees not what she caused or created, but only her role as the victim. She laments the loss of her host and creates a cacophony, wondering to anyone who will listen why there are so many thunderstorms and cold days in her life. That is until, feeling her pain in a moment of vulnerability, her next host reaches out to her with an unprotected heart.

Pestilent Purple Pulse

A blur of movement. Lights flash. The night has begun. They laugh, enjoying the glaring fluorescent glow of their white clothing in an otherwise dimly lit room. Purple. Their teeth and eyes stand apart. A dizzying contrast, with a side of alcohol, and a splash of pulsing noise. Glances froth with seduction accompany wandering hands as unfamiliar bodies brush against each other, moving to the pulse. Some feel the same beat, some different, some shake like willows in a thunderstorm. Wildly.

The noise is barely contained within four walls. Outside, passersby catch the pulsing purple as they drive, with interests piqued, if only for a fleeting moment. Remaining victims to tight schedules, they are too busy heading nowhere fast to stop and quench their curiosity. Some might roll down the window in order to catch the muffled rhythm, but instead instantly recoil when met by a blast of bitter cold, quickly securing themselves back into the stifled sanctity of their moving metal box.

Miles away her interests are piqued by a pulse as well, though not purple debauchery. It doesn't make her shake or seek contact from sweating seductive strangers. The air is still and silent, save the occasional squawking goose. Even the territorial cries of the angry birds are soothing to her. The mute breeze has a bite. It nibbles her nose and earlobes, pinches her cheeks. She takes a slow breath, and the sweet scent of raw earth courses through her body, straight to her soul, filling it with peace. The pulse is alive within her, and she smiles knowingly.

A reflection of the moon lays lazily on the lake's still surface smiling at her, calling to her inner tranquility. She takes in the brilliant stars, impressed by their ability to evoke awe as they confidently sparkle even in the presence of the tremendous luminescent orb. They are not lesser for their size. Complementing the night, casting shimmering flecks of personality on the placid, liquid face, the gaseous masses boldly command attention both directly and in reflection.

She remains that way: mere inches from the water's edge, seated on the soft, cool ground, resting her back against a young sapling, infrequently sipping on a thermos of hot hazelnut coffee for several hours. The pulse of silence, of nature, of solitude resonates, and she feels...complete. With a contented sigh, she pulls herself to her feet, briefly stretching achy hamstrings before casually following the light of the moon back to her own moving metal box. With a final glance at the two identical moons, she smiles and begins her short drive back to her other home.

Turning the corner onto Main Street, the purple pulse catches her attention through the steamy windows of an older style white building. There are several young people standing around on the street, swaying without confidence in equilibrium, stumbling as they attempt to walk. She slows, and finds herself staring into the vacant, blood shot, half closed eyes of a young man, over the drooping head of his female companion. In an attempt to be coy, he juts his chin up slightly, purses his lips, and smirks.

She sees in that moment, his soul is lacking the pulse of silence, of nature, of solitude. She senses instantly how desperately he must cling to the purple pulse, because it is obvious that between beats, his life is shockingly devoid of purpose and meaning. At once, she wishes to cure the plague, grab him by the hand and lead him to a place where silence reigns, forcing one to listen to a dissatisfied soul.

Bored with her blank expression and apparent refusal to play the game of flirtation, he turns away, gruffly ushering his stumbling lady friend up the stairs and back through the glass doors, back to the pestilent purple pulse, soon to forget the already almost nonexistent exchange.

Crashing Couches Casually Cultivating Close Connections

There is something I've gained from every trip I've taken. Each location resonates in me one way or another. Each place has called to my heart to return, but of all the places I've been, there have only been four in the continental United States that I've returned to time and time again. Monterey, CA, Annville, PA, Tampa, FL, and New York City.

~~~~~

I've found that it is not the scenery, club scene, nor quality of restaurants in these places, that causes me to return. To me, although I generally seek adventure and new experiences, there are certain traits from my exploration to which I find myself drawn time and time again. I've learned in life, you can see the most beautiful sights and participate in the most crazy exploits, but if you cultivate no connections along the way, the road can quickly become devoid of meaning, and then, instead of revelling and enjoying your journey to self discovery, you can find yourself flailing without an anchor, seemingly happy to untrained eyes, but truly empty and alone. Essentially living a Beat Generation existence in true form: travel, passion, alcohol, sex, debauchery, but missing vitality of the soul.

~~~~~

I just returned from one of the most beautiful islands in the world, Republica Dominicana. To date, this is the only international location which I've revisited. I spent a month there last February, mountain biking, wandering, hiking, dancing, and meeting people. This time I spent just one week on the island. The motivation, to the passive onlooker, might obviously have been the First International Bachata Festival. The opportunity to be part of history, where the people who love bachata travel from the other side of the world for the first time to celebrate its existence in the bachata capital of the world. However, in truth, it wasn't the festival itself so much as the prospect of having the chance to experience, once again, relationships I'd created along my path to self discovery at said festival that brought me to purchase the full pass and airfare.

~~~~~~

My participation in Couchsurfing.org has brought to me a lightness of spirit in travel and life in general. In learning to be open to making connections, hearing stories, and sharing moments with new friends around the world, the states, and close to home, I've become much more free with my heart. In past musings, I was known to say I loved horses and dogs, tolerated people...and it was true. In a crowded room, I was always amongst strangers, surrounded by acquaintances, distracted by thoughts of places...potential... practicalities. Half listening to everyone, half wishing I could disappear and hear no one. Half wanting them to like me, half not caring if they despised me. Half wanting recognition, half wanting to be ignored. Always with one foot out the door. Always on the outside looking in, and thoroughly enjoying the seclusion of separation; if only mental. Always judging. Always convinced nobody understood me, my plight, my story, and more so, feeling it wasn't worth explaining the restlessness and subtle boredom I felt around them.

~~~~~

That was then, this is now. No, I'm not referencing The Greasers. Though I enjoyed the genre thoroughly as a child.

~~~~~

Through travelling with nearly nothing, I've been exposed to the goodness of people: that spark in a soul that tempts your heart to reveal itself unabashed, and in turn nourishes the subsequently planted seed of friendship. With this gradual change in ideology, my horizons have expanded infinitely. I barely recognize my recent self when I consider the chained, dark moments of years past. The beauty of the transition is its subtlety. There was never a specific day I consciously chose to open my mind and heart to accept people from different paths. There was no distinct moment where I decided to be connected as opposed to removed.

~~~~~

I woke up one morning on a creaky, damp mattress sans sheets in a jungle cabin with no electricity near Puyo, Ecuador, covered in mosquito bites and smiling. I fought my way out from under the faulty mosquito net, and made my way to the crudely assembled wooden table in the kitchen, revelling in the sound of a torrential jungle downpour beating on the thatched roof. I smelled of sweat with a twinge of mildew, but not enough to overpower the sweet scent of Mother Nature's 100% organic cleaning solution that softly kissed my face in a misty breeze as I passed an open window. I greeted a couple from Riobamba, 4 Finnish girls, and a couple from Seattle that had already been wandering for four months when I sat down. Together we relaxed, shared stories, laughed, and enjoyed breakfast to the melody of a careless percipitation. It was in that moment I realized I wasn't on the outside looking in. I wasn't feigning interest. I was intrigued, and it wasn't forced. The best part? I realized in that moment that I would only be excluded in my future if I chose to be, because I recognized the lightening effect relationships have on your being.

~~~~~

There is something I've gained from every trip I've taken. Each place resonates in me one way or another. Each place has called my heart to return, but it's not the scenery, club scene, or quality of restaurants that tempts me. Solely people have the ability to lasso my spirit and draw it back to a location with me in tow. Whether it's Wlady in Ecuador, Don, Knikki, Tim, or any of my Chilkat Guides family in Alaska, Jota and Dina in DR, Cat in Monterey, David in England, Jorge in Spain, family in NY, FL, and PA, Peter, Aut, or Spaci in Czech Republic, Marydale in Afghanistan, Maurycy, Pawel, Erik or Quin in Seattle, Merlin, Rebecca, or La Familia de la Salsa in Watertown and Syracuse...whoever, wherever. These casually cultivated close connections are the true reason I return.

~~~~~

These days I am proud to declare honestly that I love horses, dogs, AND people.

Living Life on Lover’s Lane: Likely a Legendary Love Story

Often times with technology as an excuse, individuals go day to day walking hurriedly past people with whom they would truly connect if they took a moment to communicate. Life becomes a race from one goal - one achievement to the next, all motivated by status and a longing for recognition. Left behind in the settling dust of unbridled ambition are decaying skeletons of relationships. Shadows of what could have been.

I met two people over the course of three days in the smokey saffron light of MJ's Coffee House that I knew would change my life, if ever so subtly. A man and a woman. In speaking with the man, I was reminded that there are still people in this world that believe in achieving their dreams. There are still those willing to fight the good fight to ensure they don't dry up like a raisin in the sun. Or fester like a sore - then run (I adore Langston). This man said things to me that I have written to others. We shared laughter, not like strangers meeting for the first time, but like close friends reuniting after months apart.

The world turns, and if allowed, kindred transient spirits meet in sleepy towns - a result of several unforeseen circumstances, random bits of serendipity -and in a moment, it is clear they will be a part of each other's lives in some capacity forever, whether as a sweet memory, a fleeting acquaintance, an active friendship, or unconditional love.

And so, that being said, I recall the woman. Tall and lean, her beauty commanded my attention as she sauntered through the glass doors, passed the old piano, and stepped onto the raised, carpeted level of the cafe, where I sat. I tried not to stare at her long, blond, twin braids, resting on her slender shoulders. She and her two male companions passed me with a friendly nod and sat at the table behind me. As they began chatting, I recognized an unfamiliar accent in her English. Immediately curious of from where she hailed, I found myself focusing less on Call Me Stupid, and more on her conversation.

She was talking to the men, who were completely enraptured by her every word, about a holistic healing class in India. I found myself hanging on her every syllable, musing that everyone in the cafe should be sitting cross legged at her feet, waiting for her next story like children used to do with their grandparents before video games stole the intimacy from the modern American family. Then she said it. Ice climbing. How absolutely intense it had been! How beautiful!

I couldn't hold it in. I turned around, met her eyes, flashed her a knowing smile, nodded, AND threw in a Shaka for good measure. Immediately, she returned my smile, and with a sparkle in her almond hazel eyes, invited me to sit and chat with them. In the next several moments, we discussed ice climbing, rock climbing, hiking, travelling, life, healing, and love.

You see, she was married to one of the men with whom she shared the table, and the other was helping to translate her book from Hebrew to English. Yes, my question was answered. She hailed from Israel. She spoke of her husband often, and when she did, I could feel...yes, palpably feel, the love between them. It tingled the hairs on my arm, the sensitive skin around my collarbone, the small of my back, behind my ears. I felt their love in the air, on my skin, inside my soul. It lifted and cradled my spirit, coursed through my veins on a mission to infect my heart, and my heart, in turn, pumped it to the far reaches of my being.

I stared in wonder at the couple as they told stories of their cross country cycling trip they took together, 18 years ago. I smiled as he looked at his adoring wife, matching her enamored expression with one of his own. They discussed the long distance hikes they had done all over the world, the crazy adventures they had experienced together, and I couldn't help but smile to myself. It's out there. It exists.

The book she had written is based on healing through walking, travelling, experiencing kindness, taking challenges, questioning yourself, and learning to grow healthily. The book I am writing is based on healing through running, travelling, experiencing kindness, taking challenges, questioning yourself and learning to grow healthily. We had much to discuss. We agreed on the inherent goodness of humanity, the willingness of strangers to feed, clothe, and share with the road worn traveller, the value of a story unfamiliar, the amazing way people can come together to help one another.

I left MJ's that evening with a smile on my face. Kindred transient spirits meet in sleepy towns - a result of several unforeseen circumstances and open minds and hearts; random bits of serendipity. In a simple conversation, we came together, sharing experiences, stories, and tidbits of wisdom picked up along our travels. We shared moments together, smiling back fondly on memories past, current passion, and future potential. I tasted an unconditional love between two pure hearts, and basked in the ambient light. I was reminded that it exists, and to settle without fighting the good fight would be to waste an invaluable gift.

Live, laugh, love - with pure, raw, unadultered emotion or don't do it at all.