... to Texas and New Mexico (God is in the sand)

I drove through the entire state of Texas in one day, a fourteen-hour day of driving, which is a new record for me in my solo travels. Fourteen hours alone in a car certainly yields a lot time for a lot of things – music, podcasts, thoughts that range from silly to serious to severe, and then back again.

To my cousin in El Paso, I professed myself to be a “yes” woman, someone who says yes to anything (yes, like the Jim Carrey movie) unless there’s an actual valid reason not to. We didn’t do anything crazy. Mostly I said yes to different types of food. I said yes to going across the Mexico border, until a massive traffic jam thwarted us. But when you have suffered from antisocial tendencies in the past, saying yes to small things isn’t such a small thing after all.

Post heartbreak in Louisiana, I began to have a difficult time with more creative endeavors, like writing and drawing. Though I usually try to push through, though I have done my best to make those things habitual tasks that I JUST DO regardless of feelings, they fell by the wayside. I journeyed into the rugged wilderness instead, as if I could push myself hard enough physically then the brokenness of my insides would catch up to the muscular and hardened muscles on my outside.

Day one, I went to Franklin Mountains State Park, where I hiked up a mountain, saw some caves, climbed higher than I should have, and scrambled my way back down with a sort of graceful gracelessness. Contending with the altitude was the biggest obstacle. I was breathing with audible gasps that embarrassed me when passing other hikers (who were also struggling and likely took no notice of me).

I stayed in the park until sunset, just cherishing my time outdoors. The aloneness was comforting then, as it is sometimes, until it isn’t.

Day two, I drove up to White Sands, New Mexico, where I decided to embark upon the five-mile hike through the dunes. I spoke aloud myself only to ask "why am I doing this" as I struggled up sand dunes and the sand burned my legs and face, and my throat dried out and lips cracked and nose ran. "You'll be damn proud of yourself when you're done," I said aloud, in response to my query moments earlier.

Some stretches of markers were highly visible; you could see the path laid out before you. Others became visible only upon reaching the previous marker. A lot like life. And, when I'm in the desert, apparently all my thoughts are merely metaphors. Or is it I turn real life into the metaphor?

I sat on a dune with my running nose and burning skin and the freezing that came from the burning. I talked to God and felt Him listen. I asked Him questions and thought maybe I should try listening instead of running my mouth. I stopped talking and continued to feel that presence, but there was only companionable silence, no words of wisdom or life paths laid out before me.

Sand dumped from my shoes, sand filled my car, sand everywhere. Invasive species, sand is. I feel God more at the ocean too; perhaps sand is what makes a space holy; perhaps God is in the sand.

I realize now God owed me nothing; the bargaining I made was entirely with myself. But I did endure; I am growing a sort of tenacity that I hope will one day yield something more than a checked off completed trail. I can still only see the next marker, and barely. The sand rises around it in small storms.