This is where it all began. Almost a year ago. I know it’s early to talk about this year of travel as though it’s been completed, because in truth I have one more plane ride and one more car ride to take before I land at the way-out-in-the-woods writer’s retreat that will end these twelve months. But I’m already thinking ahead, moving on to what might be next, planning. I’m a good planner.
And I’m looking back. There’s a lot of joy and excitement and love and pleasure in those backward glances. But a lot of melancholy and fear and stress and pain and life-changing-too-fast in my rearview mirror as well. It’s been a year of serious growth and stretching. And also a year of regression and shrinking. Which, I guess, is how it’s supposed to be. I am just lucky enough to have been able to write it all down so that I can look back over it and remember, and feel these things again, and be buoyed by all of you who have come along on this ride with me.
A year, when you look at it under the microscope of writing, stretches out. A year becomes a long time. A long time to be on the road. A long time to remember. A long time to forget.
Far and fast, s.
“This is not the end. It is not even the beginning of the end. But it is, perhaps, the end of the beginning.” ~Winston Churchill