I promised to shut down this blog, but I’ve learned that somehow I am dependent on this medium, and, perhaps, this tiny trusted audience. I regret not bringing my laptop on this journey to a place that will always feel a little like home: a house in the utah valley where the street shares my last name. I have a feeling that what is not written will be lost.
Today, describing our planned itinerary for the new road trip (the original having been aborted merely two days in, not entirely unexpectedly, due to well-known incompatibilities between our two stubborn travelers, who will perhaps now accept that it takes more than love to make it on this journey), I admitted to the youngest of my cousins here that I’ve never read Kerouac. Not a single title. Not On the Road, not Big Sur, where we’ll soon be, not Dharma Bums, his personal favorite.
This was followed by a day of hugging babies and older relatives, finding the other black sheep, giggling through a game of volleyball, and for the first time feeling fully at home with my family. No more hiding, but also no more rebellion. I was happy to be here. And happy to be here without him.
Twenty minutes ago this cousin – 8 years my junior – wandered into the basement, where I was snuggling with my baby sister (and new, less angry travel partner), holding four books in his hands: the three by Kerouac and one, entitled Through Painted Deserts, that he tells me inspired him to write with purpose, something he firmly believes I should do. And I am unexpectedly, wholly moved.
Normally new books intimidate me, as if they are mocking me for not already possessing the knowledge that waits in their pages, and I feel overwhelmed. But here, I am a child again — we are all children, lying back to back, bundled in sleeping bags in the home our grandfather built. And in each page, each person, each moment, each adventure, is a mystery waiting for me to unfold it. I worry about no other books, no other people, no world other than the one I am experiencing now. In this moment, I am happy, surrounded by growing love and unbearable mountains. In this place, I am at home. And I am free.
Warszawskie Marzenia 