“This is my story, this is my song…”

– lyrics from Blessed Assurance, 1873 hymn 

 

 

April 30th is a long time ago.

In fact, it’s around 35,000 kilometres, many provinces, cities, states, faces, places, trails, stories and roads ago.

And here we are, less than two weeks before we end up back to the beginning. Not back exactly to where we started (because our apartment is rented out and no longer an option) but back on the West Coast of British Columbia.

Last month I wrote about a little ‘holiday’ we took from our trailer life. A very good friend wrote me an email after she saw that post, “…But, of course, you are not on a holiday. You are on a pilgrimage.” 

Another friend wrote to also remind me that I had long ago told her to frame her trips as pilgrimage.

Thank God for friends. They were both right. I had forgotten.

Seriously. You can either call the Camino de Santiago a long walk or declare it a pilgrimage. Words have power. They create our reality.

Our lives are, of course, the stories we tell ourselves. We are the heroes or victims in our stories.  For better or for worse, we polish our memories until they have the power of fable. These tales then demonstrate and uphold the beliefs we hold to be true.

Our stories show ourselves as heroes, victims, fools, powerful or powerless. And then we make sure everything we say, to ourselves and to others, supports our ongoing narrative. This is extremely powerful in a strange and wonderful way, but, like any magic elixir, our story can just as easily be the source of our illness and destruction.

But back to this pilgrimage sometimes known as a road trip…

 

 

For over five months we have wandered down many streets, sat in coffee shops and cafes. We’ve made our lunch at trashy highway pullouts or on the banks of lovely lakes. We’ve had fights and we’ve held hands. I’ve been near tears when campsite showers refused to work or when I was trying to bash the pots back into their ridiculous cubby.

Each time I reminded myself that this story was one of my own choosing.

In between all the hikes and sights, we’ve talked endlessly about where we might live and how and why. And, just as much, we’ve ignored the topic completely.

On October 15th we move into a tiny cottage somewhere in Roberts Creek, BC. We haven’t seen the place. We found it online when our original rental didn’t work out. It looks small but I’m pretty sure it can’t be smaller than our trailer.

 

 

I’m not sure if it’s because I know we’re stopping soon, or if some sort of as yet unseen resolution is coming together. I feel like, although we’re still feeling our way through the fog, I’m starting to see bridges, lines and connections slowly revealing themselves.

 

 

We have weighed the pros and cons of this life in this town or that, city or country or something in-between. We have canvassed strangers and friends. I especially loved all the comments, feedback and ideas that I received after the blog post I wrote in August.

In the end I believe that no matter what we choose, it is simply one story out of many and we are lucky enough that we are not running away from anything. We are blessed to have so many good choices.

Ultimately, we can set the story/adventure wherever we like. For now, I only know that we are close to wrapping up our Cross Canada chapter and moving into the pages provisionally entitled, Rental in Roberts Creek.

I remember hearing a story/tale about a man wanting to move to Australia. He met a man who had lived there and so he asked him, “What was it like?” The man told him it was awful, the people were jerks, the drivers raged and the weather was miserable.  Then he found someone else who had lived in that Land Down Under and he asked the same question. This man said, it was wonderful, the people were kind, the drivers courteous and the weather glorious.

So, yes, it all depends on what we bring to the table.

For now, the setting to our lives will be on the glorious West Coast where the Pacific flings bull kelp on the shore and wears flinty rocks into round boulders. We will soon be tucked among the rainforest trees and thick mosses.

We will be close to friends and family and some of the familiar talismans of memory.

 

 

Lately I have found myself humming along to the long ago memory of my mother’s voice. I can see the dancing motes in the sun that streams in from the side windows of the church. I feel her slightly swaying beside me, the fingertips of her left hand touching the butterscotch varnish of the pew in front of us. Her voice is clear and strong, “This is my story. This is my song…”

I like that this is one of my memories. It hasn’t always felt like a good story, but time has a way of reframing things, and lately…well lately…it feels so very much like a blessing.

 

 

 

 

 

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