A long drive

I keep driving and writing. North through Alexandria, east to the cold cobblestones of Natchitoches, through dark pines and green grass. Then south. Tired of the cold rain, I head back south to the water and endless bayous.

At my hotel in New Iberia (where the room comes complete with complimentary Tar-Off!), the batteries on the door die while I’m outside packing the car. I’m locked out. It’s pouring rain – the first cold and wet day in two weeks. The maintenance guy works the battery case as we talk about his previous job working on the bottling manufacturing line at the McIlhenny Tabasco plant on Avery Island (yes, it’s the tabasco everyone uses, no it’s not really an island). We talk about Seattle, the mechanics of mass production, the sudden change in the weather.

He stops to look up at me, “It'll all change again. But now, it is what it be, ma’am” waving around him, “It is what it be.”

I smile. Driving off, wipers on high, swishing sheets of cold rain across the glass so I can see through the dark morning – I know my site-seeing will be limited today. Nothing more to do than drive, think, sing. Well, it is what it be…

I promised myself then, don’t sweat the small stuff. Most everything else is small stuff, he tells me as we sit on his couch, practicing ways to navigate the space separating his world and mine.

It wasn’t the only thing I learned from him. Twenty-eight. I'd bought my own home and spent weekends getting lost in my little garden. I was tied to a 9 – 5 office job scheming of ways to someday being a girl who was adventurous and free, not just on weekends but for always -- in the meantime I threw myself at every challenge on my corporate climb up, making a point to always, no matter what, wear flip flops to work. Lots of flip flops.

With him it’s different, I feel like I’ve met a friend, my equal, a partner who also tries to walk that line between kickass and kind. And we begin walking together now. It’s new, different, interesting. I feel calm and curious, excited. I look back at see now how the turns and dusty falls of my past have prepared me for this. And yet, it's like nothing else.

You can do it he tells me. I look at a group of guys standing around him. He winks and says a little softer, I know you can do it. I'll stand here to catch you if you fall.

It's the perfect little push mixed with reassurance. I hop off my bike and smile. Walk through the dust just around the corner. I can’t see him, but I know he’s still standing there.

And if you fall, I tell myself, you’ll get back up, smile, and try again. Three times. Try at least three times. Even the best fall down sometimes, you just have to keep trying.

Feet clip in, heart pounds, mouth dry, scarred legs - that have taken so many falls already - fearlessly pump metal pedals, faster and faster.

Look to where you want to go. he calls.

I come around the corner past the blur of flesh and blackberries. All I see is the very last rung of the wooden ladder of a teeter-totter five feet up. And up I go, straight up, above them all.

I feel his fingers, just barely, brush my pack.

A pause then. The balance shifts. I ride down the other side and land on the ground.

They’re shocked, amazed, pleased.

I’m smiling, breathless, excited. I can't believe I did it. But I did. He tells me later he's never seen another girl ride like that. His friends tell him he's a lucky man. I blush, I'm just happy. Now I just had to try again and get better, I tell myself.

Seasons pass -- together, and alone, we've climbed uphill and around unknown corners, to see what's there -- now it’s raining in torrents and we're back at the same trail we'd raced down before. Thunder cracks as we ride through deep puddles in soaking shoes, faces wet, mud spattering up from churning of wheels. It's gritty in my teeth. We both smile.

I come around the corner, but he’s already gone ahead, and I wish silently that he would have waited for me. Instead, it waits. Slick, rotting, crooked. Harder than ever.

Deep breath. A forced smile. Don’t stop. Just try. Looking at that last rung, so high. Look to where you want to go. Three times, just try.

I pedal up, way up, pause, shift, down. Teeter slaps the ground in approval and ignites a flash of perfectly timed lightening.

I chase after him. You do it? He asks.

Nailed it!

I can hear his smile, of course you did. I would have waited for you...but I didn't want you to feel like you had to do it, if you didn't want to. I'm glad you did. He understands and I like that. We race off through the rain to the canopy of trees. Hearts flying, legs tired but so alive. It's good to be out. It feels good to be together.

Driving through the rain now, I head through bayous and devastated neighborhoods and oil drills, constantly spinning, tirelessly mining the darkness, below the surface. I sit and wait for the smallest 14 car ferry to take me across a 20 foot waterway, watching pelicans skim across water and wondering what it is about all this time, alone, thinking, writing, reading, that has me feeling so alive, curious, excited to see what happens next. And why, eventually, I lose sight of this in the midst of another.

More and more I'm realizing, it really is a process -- discovering the muscles of our strengths and the shocking, frustrating flaws. We're all on some path, where we're fortunate to intersect with the paths of others for days, or for lifetimes. Who's to say? The most-maddening-beautiful part is that you just never know until you get there, to that last rung you've been staring down, only to realize the trail starts from the moment you land. Come and go, stay and leave, try and fail, try again and grow. Grow straight, and true. Over time. As the sun shines and rain falls. But, for what seems like the one hundredth time, I'm reminding myself: try, always try, again. Again. Again...

As if on cue, iPod randomly selects the last song I sang to him: a sweet, playful Patty Griffin/Josh Radin duet, “the best thing I can give to you, is for me to go, leave you alone, you got some growing to do.” I think that the line suits us both, right now, and that's all I know for sure. I look back at the turns and dusty falls along the way and see how each prepared me for this moment. How these moments are showing me so much. And yet, it's like nothing else.

I call Jamie. Where are you? She asks.

I don’t know, but I think I’m ready to come home now.

Good. She says. Seattle’s not the same. I’ve missed you. I can’t wait to see you again.