Patchwork highway

Last night, Madi and I bounced along a cobbley mix of dirt and gravel; brick boulevards, pristine asphalt, and county roads who’s use-by dates were probably 20 years ago. Asphalt patches, concrete stop-gaps, and -in many places – a milled overlay created a crazy quilt of a way ahead.

How fitting.

This way-season-recovery has been – as your way has, too – marked by pot holes, snakes in the road (swerved around last night’s snake), dumb bunnies who will not decide whether to zig or zag nor will they exit the roadway; beautiful scenery, storm-tossed branches, good company, and a bit of getting lost.

For a while in our traveling-by-car, it seemed that Google Maps was playing a cruel joke on us as we drove further away from known pathways and deeper into tall grass.

Just like life. 

And in life, we need to trust something – Google, the map, training, intuition, the gas gauge, or whatever proves most reliable.

Every day we travel new roads.
Each breath inhales a new world.

We must trust something.

I have begun to trust nothing.
Cosmology, intuition, prior-learning, senses…I’ve quit trusting.

It’s on me to find out what is “out there” and “in here.”

Thank you for joining me on this leg of the journey.
Thank you for your patience, interest, and kindness.
Thank you for bearing me up when the truth about terrible things leaves us both feeling battered, wounded, humiliated, and at a loss.
Thank you.

I’ve become that storm-tossed human and the only difference in now and before-as-a-seeker-of-divine-mystery, is I’m admitting that I am journeying without a clue as to life.

If you must do something to advance your spiritual understanding or absence thereof, please do. But I need no more voices and messages in the shadows.
These well-intended “let me just tell you what’s what” are millstones around my neck.

Right now, I am writing my last offering in this blog, Searching for the North Star and Signs of Life.

My plan – developed over months of avoiding quiet with lesser things – became clear the day after my son graduated from college and I rambled alone in such quiet county where stillness became deafening.

With most of the people I love nearby, I let that quiet rouse me from a stupor and a willingness to squeak by – believing that I am only just filler.

Have you ever felt this?
Not quite a rousing from slumber, but the memory of the first moment of waking.

I have no idea what I’m going to do only that I will find that stillness again and again and again and listen. Take notes. Ask questions. Read. Stretch. Child’s pose. Study. Ask for help. Make more mistakes. Eat more chocolate. Laugh until the peppermint mocha coffee makes itself an impromptu neti pot. More stillness. More notes.

No one can do this for me. This finding my way, escaping the meanness of my memory on my soul, learning to tee myself up to meet new people, and love the “old people” as best as I can.

Our time on earth is so very brief; a whisper.
I need a bit of quiet to make sure mine does not become a whimper.

I would love to hear from you. Please connect with me if you’d like a postcard or to write back and forth (I’m on LinkedIn). I reserve the right to guard my heart. You do, too.

My facebook and twitter accounts will remain active (in part for work). My instagram account will, too, because pictures inspire. Rarely in my curated Instagram account, do I feel envy or humiliated. Quite honestly, being so forthcoming about this first 40+ years has been terrifying and humiliating. It drives home what makes me feel odd, alone, and bumbly.

I need to discover again…for once what makes me Allie. 

I’ll be fine and hopefully-better as I take on the back roads and patchwork highway in quiet. I may see you at the Library, running/walking, swimming, cycling, kayaking, climbing fences, at Auntie Maes to see Jeff & Jo, about and around.

We do have time for adventures. And listening. And camping. And crisping brats on a fire as the stars sing their night melody.

I’m listening. 


About allielousch

Engaged in everyday adventures and derring do.
This entry was posted in General Posts, Happiness-es, Signs of Life, There is a lot I don't know and tagged , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

12 Responses to Patchwork highway

  1. ShelleyC says:

    Ok, I respect your decisions, but I must say I will miss reading your particular way of expressing the truths of life on a regular basis. And especially from afar, it is a wonderful way to enjoy who you are. I hope your plan still includes writing for others to read, because I believe I, along with so many others, are a witness to that pure gift. I am cheering you on and walking beside you from a distant land. Been here since our meeting in the ’80s and will remain well into our own 80s.

  2. Jutta Zelko says:

    Will miss your writings. I am not a big “response” person. My English (after all these years, is just to simple}
    Just wishing you the best and I will miss your articles.You are a VERY SPECIAL< SWEET Lady.

  3. Seth Barnes says:

    Allie – that ‘s a good mission – to spend time focusing on listening. And when that season is done, please return and pick up your gift of communicating at a heart level.

    I especially liked this: “Our time on earth is so very brief; a whisper.
    I need a bit of quiet to make sure mine does not become a whimper.”

    Vaya con Dios.

  4. Terry Lynn says:

    I will comment further once my scrambled thoughts can be succinctly written, rather than rambling as a ship thrashing in a raging storm. I’m thankful to have found my North Star many years ago, yet saddened when painful childhood thoughts creep in. Sharing your first 40+ years took courage, I hope to never find. Quiet and stillness have given me peace. Wishing you peace for your next 40+ years.

  5. Kristen Torres-Toro says:

    Gonna miss reading your words, but definitely support you in this! love you!

  6. Pam Prather says:

    Love you always Allie

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