Nov 2020
You were uncomfortable in the car. Mentally, and then physically. Your thoughts and stomach churning, your throat tight. Your body yearning to expel what you'd consumed. But nothing more than 30 minutes of discomfort, that's all. You laughed through it, comforted a friend. You sat with discomfort and then turned the page. Onto the next...
You smiled a lot. You bounded up boulders, sure of your footing. Or rather, never unsure of your footing. You moved in a pack and then alone on your own path. The rocks were beautiful up close, swirling and sparkling, embedded with coral and shells. The people around you made you happy and the sun made you happy, in that pool of warmth on top of the rocks. You wanted music, but when it was not there, the sound of silence was beautiful too. Or the sound of the desert, which is not exactly silent but something close.
The sight of the world kept hitting you in the chest. Literally breathtaking. And each time a new wave of gratitude would hit, but also some sadness. Why would you EVER give up your lucky existence in this beautiful place? What stupid, surface-level **** would make you want to do that?
Your friends needed you at one point, and you realized how much you meant to them and they to you. Ali crying broke your heart. You couldn't stand the thought of any one of them feeling alone. You thought and said, "We're all alone together," which is a cheesy line from a song that rang especially true. As scary as it is to be alone, we're all here together, separately, but to support one another.
You sat in a huddle on the edge of the world with people you loved so dearly and laughed and hugged and cried and realized the rest is just *******.
And you thought maybe all that matters is doing it all before you die and love, and maybe love is God.
Everyone reconvened and walked down a path in a big clumpy line through massive rocks and Dr. Seuss trees with music echoing through the canyon. We stopped and danced and took our shoes off in solidarity with Ruby. It was cold, but I don't think anyone was ready to leave, despite being 20 feet from the parking lot. So we danced barefoot till the sun disappeared.
Be grateful, love, and all the rest is *******.
You smiled a lot. You bounded up boulders, sure of your footing. Or rather, never unsure of your footing. You moved in a pack and then alone on your own path. The rocks were beautiful up close, swirling and sparkling, embedded with coral and shells. The people around you made you happy and the sun made you happy, in that pool of warmth on top of the rocks. You wanted music, but when it was not there, the sound of silence was beautiful too. Or the sound of the desert, which is not exactly silent but something close.
The sight of the world kept hitting you in the chest. Literally breathtaking. And each time a new wave of gratitude would hit, but also some sadness. Why would you EVER give up your lucky existence in this beautiful place? What stupid, surface-level **** would make you want to do that?
Your friends needed you at one point, and you realized how much you meant to them and they to you. Ali crying broke your heart. You couldn't stand the thought of any one of them feeling alone. You thought and said, "We're all alone together," which is a cheesy line from a song that rang especially true. As scary as it is to be alone, we're all here together, separately, but to support one another.
You sat in a huddle on the edge of the world with people you loved so dearly and laughed and hugged and cried and realized the rest is just *******.
And you thought maybe all that matters is doing it all before you die and love, and maybe love is God.
Everyone reconvened and walked down a path in a big clumpy line through massive rocks and Dr. Seuss trees with music echoing through the canyon. We stopped and danced and took our shoes off in solidarity with Ruby. It was cold, but I don't think anyone was ready to leave, despite being 20 feet from the parking lot. So we danced barefoot till the sun disappeared.
Be grateful, love, and all the rest is *******.
