September 8 was circled in red on the calendar and it ran blessedly clear for weeks after. By 3:45PM, we were finally on our way, accompanied by the ever beautiful vista of islands in the Salish Sea. Touch a hand to the waters of the Pacific. It will be awhile before we smell your salty breath.
We drove with little discussion, listening to the disquieting news of America and the world, through familiar landscapes as the Skagit Valley climbed into the Cascades— processing the advent of leaving, finishing a hundred internal dialogues. When the day gave way to a brilliant night lit with a three-quarter moon, we were at the summit of the Cascades, with the radio gone silent and the big bowl of mountains around us. That was the first time I took a real breath. As we landed in the Methow Valley, Jack led the way in front of the van running delightedly up the dirt road. It felt like pure grace under that same bright moon, finding our friend’s house, like an oasis spread and waiting for us. Over a late dinner and some wine, we found a CD dedicated to Pablo Neruda, and as travelers do, found ourselves in a reverie of our travels in Chile, where we had explored, as pilgrims, each of his three houses. Suddenly, we were having conversation we hadn’t had in months. We are synching in to each other and to the road. Shann
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