Part of my "traveling
journey" has been learning to share my innermost thoughts and feelings
with others - trusting I have something to say that others might learn from -
or at the very least enjoy vicariously!! I'm excited to say that one of
my short stories has been chosen as the "Editor's Choice" for the
Northern Colorado Writers 2014 writing contest!
If you are interested in reading my story, I've posted an abbreviated version below:
Where The Veil Is Thin…
Jostling in my seat like a rag doll as the bus navigates gaping holes in the road almost large enough to swallow us whole, I question once again why I have chosen this journey. I love traveling because it always opens up new horizons to worlds previously unimagined and brings out a sense of wonderment; but it sometimes brings out the worst in me when physical discomfort sets into my aging body. I grumble inside as I reflect on the long, torturous trip I agreed to when my friend suggested visiting the highlands of Guatemala – riding in an uncomfortable bus for more hours than a body was meant to sit still in a comfortable car, let alone a crowded, noisy, smelly Chicken Bus!
Although I’m feeling grouchy, a smile plays on my lips at the name Chicken Bus – an expression coined by travelers who have seen actual chickens on the bus going to market, as well as those who have had the most terrifying experiences of bus drivers “playing chicken” with other drivers on the switchback mountain roads which barely have room for one vehicle at a time let alone two! The rule of the road goes something like this: whoever wins at this game of chicken gets to drive forward – while the loser has to navigate their bus in reverse (hoping one of their tires doesn’t slip off the unprotected edge of the mountain road) until they find a wide enough spot in the road where the two vehicles can pass with mere inches to spare!
As I shift in my seat yet again (trying not to disturb the small child who is attempting to sit on the spare 4 inches my travel companion and I have tried to create for her but keep reclaiming as we slip and slide across the bench seat), I curse this Soul Journey that brought me here. “Go explore,” my heart had encouraged; “Meet new people and gain fresh perspectives,” my head had chimed in; “Follow your calling,” my soul had whispered; and now here I am doing just that and feeling fed-up with this journey already! "Why did you leave the comfort of your home with friends and family who know you so well?” my heart whines; “Why did you give up your job and the accompanying financial security?” my mind cries angrily; and “Why have you thrown away the camaraderie of friends just to come to this god-forsaken land where our body, mind and soul ache from the pain and discomfort of growth?” my body moans.
As I move in my seat for the hundredth time to transfer the pressure from one butt-cheek to the other, the poor little girl who had just about dozed off on her wedge of seat falls onto the floor! Awakened from my pity-party, my heart opens wide as I remember once again this journey – in life AND in Guatemala – isn’t all about me! The little girl looks up at me and her lip quivers. She doesn’t cry but quietly says something to her mother and sisters who are sitting across the aisle all squished together in their seat while the mother nurses the infant wrapped tightly against her breast in the brightly hand-woven cloth – a sharp contrast to the grey, dirty world all around me.
Suddenly, I am filled with unprecedented Grace and something opens up deep inside – a fissure which creates a splinter of light and warms my heart; an aperture reminding me of the quintessential journeying passages of life which allow us to grow and become more fully who we are. In a moment of uninhibited openness and compassion, I scoop up the child and place her in my lap – gently and hesitantly so as not to frighten her or her family – smiling at the mother and asking the question with my eyes if this is okay?
The woman looks worn out and gives me a nod of consent, smiling tenderly and nodding at the child – giving her permission to relax in the arms of this larger-than-is-customary-in-their-world Gringa with a lot more cushion on her body than the bus seat she’s been trying to sit on unsuccessfully. Her older sisters keep a watchful eye on us as we all begin to relax – chugging along on the bus; thrown from side-to-side with a rhythm which eventually lulls the child into sleep.
Something miraculous and unexpected happens to my sore, aching body. My muscles relax. I find myself swaying with the motion of the bus rather than fighting it stiffly to keep from bothering the others in my seat. Like the passing trees outside my window bending and swaying with the wind in order to avoid being broken and damaged, I find myself rocking with the rhythm of the bus. My body settles into the movement, and I breathe a sigh of relief. I didn’t know until this moment I’ve been holding my breath most of my life – apprehensively waiting for the other shoe to drop; anxiously alert for the next unsettling gust of wind.
Like Henny Penny in Chicken Little, I’ve spent most of my life anxiously scurrying around thinking to myself, “The sky is falling, the sky is falling – I must be ever-vigilant or the world will fall apart because I haven’t been watching carefully enough to prevent it!” But here – sliding around on this crazy bus with the gentle breathing and warm body of precious cargo entrusted to me for my care and protection – I feel peace and an assurance that all is well. I know now my purpose in life is to remember this truth and come back to it when the chaos of the world begins to wear down this remembrance.
I feel my heart open more fully to the beauty of the scenery passing gently outside my window. Fields of land pass me by – evoking childhood memories of the patchwork quilts my grandmother’s generation created with their strong and capable hands. What those industrious women created out of cloth, these wise and gentle people have created from the land – remarkably straight blocks of loamy earth growing various essential plants mixed with wild-flowers serving as natural pesticides to protect their food-source. I see at least 20 different shades of green, brown and yellow with accents of red, purple and white thrown into the mix of colors – like the flowers I remember dotting the quilts that covered me as a child – and I am in awe.
The beauty of the mist draping the valleys far below the steep mountainous road we are travelling makes the land feel magical. It reminds me of the mysteries of life I came to explore. My existence back home had become dull and hazy like an old mirror – the sheen worn off so the image was dark and cloudy rather than reflecting brightly all that is good in this world.
I had felt called here in the same way a sailor feels the call of the Siren – with an intense yearning to find that serene place of respite for my soul. As I wiggle in my seat after hours of holding the same position so as not to disturb the sleeping child, my arm tingles and awakens. This prickling sensation reminds me my soul is now awakening in a new way as well. I have found the respite my soul has been longing for right here – on the Chicken Bus – with this endearing, sticky girl with mud on her bare feet sleeping soundly in my arms.
Another hour passes and the bus finally pulls over to the side of the road. I gently release the little girl to sit with my travel companion who has decided to continue onto another town further up the road. I’m getting off the bus alone. I can barely see the dirt road and feel overwhelmed by the shadow of trees all around me.
I had asked the travel agent who booked my accommodations in this tiny village if the driver of the bus would be able to drop me off directly in front of the place I would be staying since it was on the way into town, and in true make-the-customer-happy-even-if-it-doesn’t-include-all-the-details fashion I was told SURE – no problem!! What they failed to mention, however, is that I would be dropped off on the road at the top of a very dark driveway, 200 yards or more down an extremely steep hill.
After much stilted discussion with my limited Spanish asking if the bus driver might wait a few moments while my friend helps me carry my luggage down the steep incline passing as a driveway, I am left by the side of the road in the pitch dark with too much baggage – a continuing theme in my life. This moment in the shadows of darkness as I watch the lights of the bus pull away begs the question inside of me: how many people in my life have I crossed paths with who needed my love and kindness but went unnoticed in my own hurry to get to the next seemingly important thing in life? How many people have I overlooked due to my own need to not appear a failure to the world – rushing past them as I met deadlines and schedules imposed by an ego-driven society?
The night enfolds me and fear chokes me with the strength of a vice-grip. I can’t see my hand in front of my face, and I feel hopeless. It’s not even dinnertime, but it’s dark as a coal mine. I’m used to living in the city where lights brandish every street corner and a phone call easily rescues me if I become stranded. I hadn’t taken into account the earlier setting of the sun in this region, and it’s obviously too late to chase after the bus. The other shoe has dropped and I feel danger all around me. Tears begin to trickle down my face as my mind begins to race.
“Oh crap,” I mumble not so quietly. “I’ve tried to protect myself from something horrible happening throughout my whole life, yet here it is: I’m about to die alone on the pitch-dark mountains of Guatemala!” I curse myself for letting down my guard and missing this one detail that could mean life or death thousands of miles from home – far away from those who love me and have always cared for me during an impending crisis.
I have no choice at this moment in time but to move forward, so I try to imagine how I am going to get all of my things down the hill – not even sure there’s really a hotel at the bottom. I ponder leaving all my baggage behind, but I’m still too attached to my possessions. I laugh resentfully at myself and think how true this statement is regarding my whole life. I think about how many times I have felt hopeless, scared and couldn’t breathe with the crushing weight of it all. I realize I have two choices in this moment: give into my tears and sit here hoping someone will come to rescue me, or move forward and trust my instincts – taking one small, itty-bitty tiny step at a time – and proceed towards the bottom of the hill with the hopes I will be released from this darkness which is now consuming me inside and out.
My journey here was planned as a possible life move – staying a few months or years depending on what Guidance I received once I arrived – so I have three large bags to haul down the hill. Slow step by slow step, I make my way carefully down the driveway. I try putting the luggage in front of me but get pulled forward so quickly I almost fall on my face. It reminds me of my life at home which sometimes runs at a pace that causes me to trip; causes me to lose my balance and fall – crying out silently in pain but feeling the need to get right back up so I don’t feel ashamed of failing in the eyes of our culture.
I try putting my baggage behind me and am almost crushed and run over by the weight of it all. I try leaving part of my burden half-way down the hill with the intention of coming back later to retrieve it, but the wheels on the suitcase – just like the pain of my past – have a mind of their own.
I have no choice but to navigate that which is behind me with that which lies ahead. Slowly but surely, 2 or 3 steps at a time at a snail’s pace, I roll one suitcase in front of me and one behind – stopping every few feet to slow things down because the momentum easily gets away from me and drags me with them.
It takes me almost an hour to travel 200 yards, feeling each moment that I am steeping over a precipice which may cause me to fall and never return because I can see NOTHING in the darkness. I ponder once again why I am fearfully holding onto the weight of this baggage and shout at myself, “Just let it go and be free,” but I feel my grip tighten on the handles. Unwilling to release it and unyielding in my stance, I balance my luggage like I balance my life: stuck half-way down the hill and half-way up. I can’t return to the top – to who I thought I was – the bus is no longer there; and I can’t seem to get myself to move forward – to explore the possibility of who I will become because the unknown in the darkness frightens me.
I know as the tears stream down my face that I must make a choice because I can’t stay here in limbo – the dark hole from which I fear I will never return. I am being given the opportunity to release the encumbrances of my past which have been pushing me like the heavy suitcase behind me along a path of destruction and despair; while simultaneously letting go of the pull of my chaotic life that threatens to pull me down face-first on the rigid concrete of life.
Instead of moving forward, though, I sink to the ground and sit straining each muscle to keep my baggage from slipping away from me into the cold, dark night – hopeless and helpless because I refuse to leave my burdens behind. I sit for what feels like hours, emitting gut-wrenching sobs from the deepest, darkest places. Until then, I hadn’t dared touch these places for fear of opening Pandora’s Box and releasing the shadows – and possibly an awareness of that which I have held at bay most of my life – never to be contained again.
Crushed and alone, I sit with my burdens growing heavier until I hear the bark of a dog and see a flicker of light at the bottom of the hill. I don’t know if it’s my fear of the feral beasts attacking me (I make a mental note to strangle the bus driver who mentioned they might be waiting for me in the darkness just before he left me alone to deal with them); or perhaps it’s seeing the barest flicker of light at the bottom of the hill – giving me hope that I might be on the right track. Whatever the motivation, I summon the strength and courage within me to move forward once again.
As it turns out, I am altogether in a different place on my journey than I thought I was. In my darkness and hopelessness, I am not aware of being almost at the bottom of the hill – a mere 3 feet from the sensor that turns on the flood lights. The friendly dogs greet me 10 seconds after the lights magically seem to illuminate my path, bounding back and forth all around me and showering me with unconditional love, safety and acceptance. The owners of the guest house follow quickly behind the dogs and relieve me of my luggage. The burden I wasn’t willing to give up on the steep driveway has now been transformed into a talisman for my sacred journey.
I can see now that the shadows which sometimes feel never-ending in one moment can be brought into the light of illumination with one or two steps in the right direction. I am excruciatingly aware we never know how far we must travel to reach the final step when life changes from cavernous darkness to never-ending light; from heart-palpitating panic into peace-filled joy; and from the weight-crushing loneliness of carrying our burdens alone to the relief of a lightened load with the support of community.
I let the owners fuss over me as my shaky legs and emotions finally give out – a limp rag of no use to anyone at this point. I finish the wonderful meal they bring me, barely able to feed myself from sheer exhaustion after the day’s ordeals and fall into bed. As I crawl between the cool, crisp sheets that smell of sunshine and the fresh mountain air in which they dried earlier that day, my tired body wants to collapse but my mind continues racing. A part of me fears if I don’t completely absorb the lessons from my day, they will disappear like the light of the moon with the brilliance of the morning sun.
I am reminded of the powerful pull I felt to journey here, choosing to give up my job, my family, friends and comforts of life at home in order to partake in a journey that made no logical sense. Coming here with no specific purpose but merely an “intuitive sense” was definitely a leap of faith. And now here I am: exhausted and bone-tired, yet feeling more empowered and alive than I’ve felt in years. My driveway pilgrimage, as I’ve decided to call it, has revealed to me how I might have missed a very important healing opportunity had I not come – one I’m sure will reverberate throughout the rest of my life.
Although I’m feeling grouchy, a smile plays on my lips at the name Chicken Bus – an expression coined by travelers who have seen actual chickens on the bus going to market, as well as those who have had the most terrifying experiences of bus drivers “playing chicken” with other drivers on the switchback mountain roads which barely have room for one vehicle at a time let alone two! The rule of the road goes something like this: whoever wins at this game of chicken gets to drive forward – while the loser has to navigate their bus in reverse (hoping one of their tires doesn’t slip off the unprotected edge of the mountain road) until they find a wide enough spot in the road where the two vehicles can pass with mere inches to spare!
As I shift in my seat yet again (trying not to disturb the small child who is attempting to sit on the spare 4 inches my travel companion and I have tried to create for her but keep reclaiming as we slip and slide across the bench seat), I curse this Soul Journey that brought me here. “Go explore,” my heart had encouraged; “Meet new people and gain fresh perspectives,” my head had chimed in; “Follow your calling,” my soul had whispered; and now here I am doing just that and feeling fed-up with this journey already! "Why did you leave the comfort of your home with friends and family who know you so well?” my heart whines; “Why did you give up your job and the accompanying financial security?” my mind cries angrily; and “Why have you thrown away the camaraderie of friends just to come to this god-forsaken land where our body, mind and soul ache from the pain and discomfort of growth?” my body moans.
As I move in my seat for the hundredth time to transfer the pressure from one butt-cheek to the other, the poor little girl who had just about dozed off on her wedge of seat falls onto the floor! Awakened from my pity-party, my heart opens wide as I remember once again this journey – in life AND in Guatemala – isn’t all about me! The little girl looks up at me and her lip quivers. She doesn’t cry but quietly says something to her mother and sisters who are sitting across the aisle all squished together in their seat while the mother nurses the infant wrapped tightly against her breast in the brightly hand-woven cloth – a sharp contrast to the grey, dirty world all around me.
Suddenly, I am filled with unprecedented Grace and something opens up deep inside – a fissure which creates a splinter of light and warms my heart; an aperture reminding me of the quintessential journeying passages of life which allow us to grow and become more fully who we are. In a moment of uninhibited openness and compassion, I scoop up the child and place her in my lap – gently and hesitantly so as not to frighten her or her family – smiling at the mother and asking the question with my eyes if this is okay?
The woman looks worn out and gives me a nod of consent, smiling tenderly and nodding at the child – giving her permission to relax in the arms of this larger-than-is-customary-in-their-world Gringa with a lot more cushion on her body than the bus seat she’s been trying to sit on unsuccessfully. Her older sisters keep a watchful eye on us as we all begin to relax – chugging along on the bus; thrown from side-to-side with a rhythm which eventually lulls the child into sleep.
Something miraculous and unexpected happens to my sore, aching body. My muscles relax. I find myself swaying with the motion of the bus rather than fighting it stiffly to keep from bothering the others in my seat. Like the passing trees outside my window bending and swaying with the wind in order to avoid being broken and damaged, I find myself rocking with the rhythm of the bus. My body settles into the movement, and I breathe a sigh of relief. I didn’t know until this moment I’ve been holding my breath most of my life – apprehensively waiting for the other shoe to drop; anxiously alert for the next unsettling gust of wind.
Like Henny Penny in Chicken Little, I’ve spent most of my life anxiously scurrying around thinking to myself, “The sky is falling, the sky is falling – I must be ever-vigilant or the world will fall apart because I haven’t been watching carefully enough to prevent it!” But here – sliding around on this crazy bus with the gentle breathing and warm body of precious cargo entrusted to me for my care and protection – I feel peace and an assurance that all is well. I know now my purpose in life is to remember this truth and come back to it when the chaos of the world begins to wear down this remembrance.
I feel my heart open more fully to the beauty of the scenery passing gently outside my window. Fields of land pass me by – evoking childhood memories of the patchwork quilts my grandmother’s generation created with their strong and capable hands. What those industrious women created out of cloth, these wise and gentle people have created from the land – remarkably straight blocks of loamy earth growing various essential plants mixed with wild-flowers serving as natural pesticides to protect their food-source. I see at least 20 different shades of green, brown and yellow with accents of red, purple and white thrown into the mix of colors – like the flowers I remember dotting the quilts that covered me as a child – and I am in awe.
The beauty of the mist draping the valleys far below the steep mountainous road we are travelling makes the land feel magical. It reminds me of the mysteries of life I came to explore. My existence back home had become dull and hazy like an old mirror – the sheen worn off so the image was dark and cloudy rather than reflecting brightly all that is good in this world.
I had felt called here in the same way a sailor feels the call of the Siren – with an intense yearning to find that serene place of respite for my soul. As I wiggle in my seat after hours of holding the same position so as not to disturb the sleeping child, my arm tingles and awakens. This prickling sensation reminds me my soul is now awakening in a new way as well. I have found the respite my soul has been longing for right here – on the Chicken Bus – with this endearing, sticky girl with mud on her bare feet sleeping soundly in my arms.
Another hour passes and the bus finally pulls over to the side of the road. I gently release the little girl to sit with my travel companion who has decided to continue onto another town further up the road. I’m getting off the bus alone. I can barely see the dirt road and feel overwhelmed by the shadow of trees all around me.
I had asked the travel agent who booked my accommodations in this tiny village if the driver of the bus would be able to drop me off directly in front of the place I would be staying since it was on the way into town, and in true make-the-customer-happy-even-if-it-doesn’t-include-all-the-details fashion I was told SURE – no problem!! What they failed to mention, however, is that I would be dropped off on the road at the top of a very dark driveway, 200 yards or more down an extremely steep hill.
After much stilted discussion with my limited Spanish asking if the bus driver might wait a few moments while my friend helps me carry my luggage down the steep incline passing as a driveway, I am left by the side of the road in the pitch dark with too much baggage – a continuing theme in my life. This moment in the shadows of darkness as I watch the lights of the bus pull away begs the question inside of me: how many people in my life have I crossed paths with who needed my love and kindness but went unnoticed in my own hurry to get to the next seemingly important thing in life? How many people have I overlooked due to my own need to not appear a failure to the world – rushing past them as I met deadlines and schedules imposed by an ego-driven society?
The night enfolds me and fear chokes me with the strength of a vice-grip. I can’t see my hand in front of my face, and I feel hopeless. It’s not even dinnertime, but it’s dark as a coal mine. I’m used to living in the city where lights brandish every street corner and a phone call easily rescues me if I become stranded. I hadn’t taken into account the earlier setting of the sun in this region, and it’s obviously too late to chase after the bus. The other shoe has dropped and I feel danger all around me. Tears begin to trickle down my face as my mind begins to race.
“Oh crap,” I mumble not so quietly. “I’ve tried to protect myself from something horrible happening throughout my whole life, yet here it is: I’m about to die alone on the pitch-dark mountains of Guatemala!” I curse myself for letting down my guard and missing this one detail that could mean life or death thousands of miles from home – far away from those who love me and have always cared for me during an impending crisis.
I have no choice at this moment in time but to move forward, so I try to imagine how I am going to get all of my things down the hill – not even sure there’s really a hotel at the bottom. I ponder leaving all my baggage behind, but I’m still too attached to my possessions. I laugh resentfully at myself and think how true this statement is regarding my whole life. I think about how many times I have felt hopeless, scared and couldn’t breathe with the crushing weight of it all. I realize I have two choices in this moment: give into my tears and sit here hoping someone will come to rescue me, or move forward and trust my instincts – taking one small, itty-bitty tiny step at a time – and proceed towards the bottom of the hill with the hopes I will be released from this darkness which is now consuming me inside and out.
My journey here was planned as a possible life move – staying a few months or years depending on what Guidance I received once I arrived – so I have three large bags to haul down the hill. Slow step by slow step, I make my way carefully down the driveway. I try putting the luggage in front of me but get pulled forward so quickly I almost fall on my face. It reminds me of my life at home which sometimes runs at a pace that causes me to trip; causes me to lose my balance and fall – crying out silently in pain but feeling the need to get right back up so I don’t feel ashamed of failing in the eyes of our culture.
I try putting my baggage behind me and am almost crushed and run over by the weight of it all. I try leaving part of my burden half-way down the hill with the intention of coming back later to retrieve it, but the wheels on the suitcase – just like the pain of my past – have a mind of their own.
I have no choice but to navigate that which is behind me with that which lies ahead. Slowly but surely, 2 or 3 steps at a time at a snail’s pace, I roll one suitcase in front of me and one behind – stopping every few feet to slow things down because the momentum easily gets away from me and drags me with them.
It takes me almost an hour to travel 200 yards, feeling each moment that I am steeping over a precipice which may cause me to fall and never return because I can see NOTHING in the darkness. I ponder once again why I am fearfully holding onto the weight of this baggage and shout at myself, “Just let it go and be free,” but I feel my grip tighten on the handles. Unwilling to release it and unyielding in my stance, I balance my luggage like I balance my life: stuck half-way down the hill and half-way up. I can’t return to the top – to who I thought I was – the bus is no longer there; and I can’t seem to get myself to move forward – to explore the possibility of who I will become because the unknown in the darkness frightens me.
I know as the tears stream down my face that I must make a choice because I can’t stay here in limbo – the dark hole from which I fear I will never return. I am being given the opportunity to release the encumbrances of my past which have been pushing me like the heavy suitcase behind me along a path of destruction and despair; while simultaneously letting go of the pull of my chaotic life that threatens to pull me down face-first on the rigid concrete of life.
Instead of moving forward, though, I sink to the ground and sit straining each muscle to keep my baggage from slipping away from me into the cold, dark night – hopeless and helpless because I refuse to leave my burdens behind. I sit for what feels like hours, emitting gut-wrenching sobs from the deepest, darkest places. Until then, I hadn’t dared touch these places for fear of opening Pandora’s Box and releasing the shadows – and possibly an awareness of that which I have held at bay most of my life – never to be contained again.
Crushed and alone, I sit with my burdens growing heavier until I hear the bark of a dog and see a flicker of light at the bottom of the hill. I don’t know if it’s my fear of the feral beasts attacking me (I make a mental note to strangle the bus driver who mentioned they might be waiting for me in the darkness just before he left me alone to deal with them); or perhaps it’s seeing the barest flicker of light at the bottom of the hill – giving me hope that I might be on the right track. Whatever the motivation, I summon the strength and courage within me to move forward once again.
As it turns out, I am altogether in a different place on my journey than I thought I was. In my darkness and hopelessness, I am not aware of being almost at the bottom of the hill – a mere 3 feet from the sensor that turns on the flood lights. The friendly dogs greet me 10 seconds after the lights magically seem to illuminate my path, bounding back and forth all around me and showering me with unconditional love, safety and acceptance. The owners of the guest house follow quickly behind the dogs and relieve me of my luggage. The burden I wasn’t willing to give up on the steep driveway has now been transformed into a talisman for my sacred journey.
I can see now that the shadows which sometimes feel never-ending in one moment can be brought into the light of illumination with one or two steps in the right direction. I am excruciatingly aware we never know how far we must travel to reach the final step when life changes from cavernous darkness to never-ending light; from heart-palpitating panic into peace-filled joy; and from the weight-crushing loneliness of carrying our burdens alone to the relief of a lightened load with the support of community.
I let the owners fuss over me as my shaky legs and emotions finally give out – a limp rag of no use to anyone at this point. I finish the wonderful meal they bring me, barely able to feed myself from sheer exhaustion after the day’s ordeals and fall into bed. As I crawl between the cool, crisp sheets that smell of sunshine and the fresh mountain air in which they dried earlier that day, my tired body wants to collapse but my mind continues racing. A part of me fears if I don’t completely absorb the lessons from my day, they will disappear like the light of the moon with the brilliance of the morning sun.
I am reminded of the powerful pull I felt to journey here, choosing to give up my job, my family, friends and comforts of life at home in order to partake in a journey that made no logical sense. Coming here with no specific purpose but merely an “intuitive sense” was definitely a leap of faith. And now here I am: exhausted and bone-tired, yet feeling more empowered and alive than I’ve felt in years. My driveway pilgrimage, as I’ve decided to call it, has revealed to me how I might have missed a very important healing opportunity had I not come – one I’m sure will reverberate throughout the rest of my life.
Comments
Post a Comment