Mile Marker 2313
Back in grammar school we were supposed to be able to label all the US states, and somehow all those big square ones in the West were simply never where I thought they should be. Wyoming in particular was wily. But driving through them one right after the other, one does at least learn how unique each is, even I am still a bit fuzzy on where exactly I am.
Wyoming remains tricky and has a vague outlaw feel to it; somehow you just know that everybody in the other cars--from old men to kids to dogs--is wearing cowboy boots. Colorado has a beautiful backdrop of mountains that a girl could just stare at all day, which is good because with the traffic you're gonna be there all day. And Kansas features big, fat, juicy bugs that actually scare the shit out of you when they hit the windshield. Kansas also features the very intriguing "Second Friendliest Yarn Store in the World," leading me to wonder if staff are compelled to at least occasionally be assholes.
Now I'm here in the glorious Midwest after three days at a running and meditation program up in the Colorado mountains. As was the case last year, it was transformative not just because the hilly trails got my calves screaming, but because somehow I always get what I need to hear there when I need to hear it: "You are perfect, and you could use some work." As we ran together, meditated together, and did some downward dogs in the pouring rain, we learned each other's stories. And of course my story is at least in part about coming back from a broken heart.
And these good, loving, gentle people told me I was awesome. Me, a girl about two months late for a haircut and who is all but living in truck that looks like a tornado hit it. Me, a girl who runs to knit herself back together. And it made me feel like a fraud, because I am not awesome. On a good day I am pretty okay and a little bit badass, but awesome is...well, awesome. Then I realized that what they really meant is that we are all awesome, because we humans are resilient. We collapse on the floor, and then we haul ourselves back onto our feet. We start walking, then we run. We start smiling, and then we laugh. We start moving, and then we climb into our truck and drive for six weeks at a time.
Okay, maybe that last one is a little unusual. Maybe even approaching awesome. Maybe I am even the second most awesome crazy old lady barreling across the US today. I don't know quite what the other broad is doing to be Number One, but I sure hope we get to play banjo at a rest stop together tomorrow.