It's the night before Independence Day and I'm in Colorado alone. I technically have a home waiting for me, but we all know how that goes--the things that wait we don't always want. I can feel my dreams screaming with urgency not to get off track, but to ride the train hard and fast as far as it will take me and at the cliff fly, let what wants to die, die--trust that the stuff of spirit floats.
Last year, this time, I was walking the streets of a small city in Maryland watching families gather on blankets, sharing mosquito spray, popcicles, beer. I remember keeping my eyes peeled for anyone, anyone at all who was also alone and ready to sweep me away from my terrible solitude. The ice-cream man gave me a free a bottle of water and his phone number. I never called. I sat cross-legged on the grass and watched the moon stand steady behind exploding fireworks. I prayed that I'd somehow recover, feel sane, happy even, given the chance to sit alone again watching the world explode.
Tonight I'm going out solo on an out-of-town friend's cruiser bike. I don't know what I'll find. But it's almost Independence Day, and no coincidence that I'm alone.
It's become clear over the year that the hidden gift of solitude is you only have to please yourself; let the most alive and fearless part of you choose what you really want to do, go do it.
Tonight, I want to feel something new; be out in the world, become fire.
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