Is it age or have the clouds become more beautiful?
(Both sides now??)

What also dazzles me on road trips is the compact we all share, no matter our party affiliation or religion or country of origin or gender identity or sexual preference or weight or income or felony convictions.

So many travelers co-exist on roadways and highways and bridges with very few tragedies given how many of us are moving at once.

There’s a grace in this, and I felt it earlier this month while driving through the Green Mountains in a storm, even as my car slid in the snow toward oncoming traffic–toward a Mac Truck to be exact–like the one that crushed my dreams (and my Nana & aunties) when I was a girl of 14.

“I will dwell in Her house forever and ever,” sang Bobby McFerrin over the car stereo, and at once I understood. There is no separation. We are always home.

Instead of delivering death that morning, however, my car righted itself, and so I continued south into the Berkshires, while the truck continued north alongside Lake Champlain toward Burlington.

What I’ve learned these past years while writing up against the bone of my deepest loss is that it too had its own grace even as it ached in the hearts of many.

I don’t know exactly what grace is, but I feel it when I look at the sky or when I marvel at how many of us are moving, praying, dancing–at the same time.


If we each had to assign a word to these letters, I wonder what yours would be and how different they might be from mine–or from one moment to the next.


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