Oh, it's so good to be home. Sitting here on my Sunday bed, surrounded by newspapers and cat, a cup of coffee not from an odd machine in a hotel. No concerns about tearing the room apart for those damn bedbugs I was paranoid about all the way across America.
I am home from my 4,800 mile adventure and finally rested. I know there was an art show sandwiched in between the 60 hours of car therapy, but I realized on the last few hundred miles it was about so much more. I was delirious at that point, but knew it had been a journey I had to find my way through. I think I wanted to push myself, remove myself from a comfortable routine and strip my thoughts down to their core. I resisted for a couple of days and then as I crossed into the Mojave Desert my protective barriers dissolved and so did I. It seemed to fit the desert landscape. Sometimes, I guess, you have to be in a desolate place to find what you're looking for. After some hard tears I found such a beautiful sense of peace as I rolled along, deep in thought, watching the sunrise in my rear view window.
The hole in my chest is closing. It's smaller now. It was a gaping tear reflected in my sculptures, hard to look at without cringing, but necessary for the process of spilling out my grief. I am sure there will always be a small opening near the scar. Grieving you will be a part of me, just as love for you will be held within.
Now though, the opening is left behind for what comes to spill in. Now I have room for whatever it will be.
So the journey emptied me and yet I feel filled again. Funny how sixty odd hours spent in a car with yourself can do that.
The cat is snoring. Happy dreams I suppose. Maybe she's happy I'm home.
I know I am.