“I like living. I have sometimes been wildly, despairingly, acutely miserable, racked with sorrow, but through it all I still know quite certainly that just to be alive is a grand thing.” – Agatha Christie

 

 

Most of the time when I wake up…I know where I am.

This, somewhat absurdly, has come to feel like a large accomplishment.

A week ago I woke in the Queen-sized comfort of a pouffy bed in the Westin Nova Scotian. The soft fog hung outside our 11th floor window, the city of Halifax almost fully obscured and muffled by quiet clouds. My dear friend Mary slept in the bed next to mine.

 

 

We both woke, still grinning from our night of watching karaoke at Bearly’s House of Blues.

We had watched the performers the way one rubbernecks at a traffic accident. I kept wishing for an invisible camera to record each singer. But even if I had set up a portrait studio, a mere photo could not have begun to capture the sheer range of the humanity and the diversity of talent.

Each singer sang with heart and feeling and a seemingly complete lack of self-consciousness. Others merely yelled out the scrolling words. Some were in tune. Others…not so much.

One finger-snapping dude wore a cowboy hat so far on the back of his head that I found myself holding my breath as he strutted à la disco through his songs. Had he glued it to his head? With his hitched-up jeans, he looked like a skinny cartoon drawing of himself, all angles and jittery movements.

Another man stood up in his overly large-tongued running shoes, sagging pants and a sweatshirt and then sang the lyrics to ‘Sharp Dressed Man’.  He appeared oblivious to the irony.

I admired the bravery of them all.

And then, a woman of an indeterminate age, her black polyester pants stretched well beyond their sizing, a baseball hat pulled down low over her deep-set eyes with brownish hair that hung beneath her hat, like, it too, had lost all hope.  I cringed on her behalf.

The blues music started up. I prepared to avert my eyes to spare her the embarrassment.

And then.

Dear God, she sang.

I have hung out in enough blues bars to know the real deal, and people, this woman sang as well as anyone I’d ever heard. Mary and I stared, eyes wide and hearts broken.  I wanted to cry, not only for her beautiful soulful voice but for all that would never happen for her. Instead, she would have only this…her few minutes in the lights of a beer-stained stage. I wished for so much more for her.

This morning I woke under my white duvet in a single bed in Oroville, Washington. Osoyoos Lake lapped against the steps immediately outside my veranda room. Debbie had already left her little bed on the other side of the porch. I knew she’d be sitting outside with her coffee, the sun gleaming on the infinite waves at her feet.

 

 

I have been here all week, ensconced in this incredible designer home with seven of my best friends. Collectively, this is our 28th annual trip. We have done so many different adventures together. When we’re all together, we are a group of ten.

But Mary couldn’t make the trip this year.

And Kathleen…Kathleen has died. I still don’t know how to write that statement without something dark and hard pressing on my head.

Last Thursday, I flew from the Atlantic Coast, landed in Vancouver on the Pacific, overnighted at Deb’s house and, by the end of a day’s drive, was moved into this incredible lakefront house.

 

 

We’ve cycled, kayaked, paddle-boarded, walked, hiked, gone to the July 4th Chesaw Rodeo, had cocktails on the inflatable island and even jeered our way through a couple of episodes of Naked and Afraid (?!?!).

 

 

Every night a different team of two has produced a feast. We’ve held hands and taken turns saying thanks before each dinner.

 

 

We’ve toasted each other.

We’ve cheered and raged at the world’s injustices. We’ve hooted and howled and shared some tears.

But, more than anything else, we’ve laughed so long and hard that it has felt like its own workout.

 

 

 

 

Tomorrow Kevin will pick me up and we will once again head eastward in our tiny trailer.  Eventually we’ll end up back on the Atlantic Coast.

 

 

But there are many days and nights before we get there. Almost every day I will wake up somewhere new. Most days I’ll know where I am. Some mornings it will take a minute while I gather memories and place myself back on the map.

Each day my life feels deeper and richer – filled with experiences, landscapes, people, faces and friends, both new and old.

Each day I give thanks again for the wonder of it all.

For the gift of travel.

For the diversity of humanity.

For the hope and the songs that live in us all.

For all of this.

I give thanks.

 

 

 

Thank you for reading and sharing in my travels. If you enjoy reading my posts, I’d really appreciate it if you could please share them in any way you can. Happy Trails…