Is this Heaven? No, it's Iowa.

I’ve been thinking a lot about place, about space, about home.  Owing to my dream job, my life on the road has expanded, like, tenfold.  I spend most weeknights in strange hotels in strange cities, eating strange food and sleeping in strange beds.  A majority of my conversations are with strangers, also staying in strange hotels in strange cities, eating strange food and sleeping in strange beds.

It gets lonely sometimes, but you do what you can and savor the perks, making the best out of the place you’re in because you know you’ll be back next week or next month to do it all over again, so you’d better deal and start making lemonade.

I’m a self-proclaimed homebody, so this new life outside of my life has become an Easter egg hunt of sorts, searching under every rock, on every trail and menu for familiarity, for balance, for comfort, for routine.  I have “favorite” hotels simply because I can get a huge pile of eggs and an epic bowl of fresh fruit every morning, because I can rest assured that their shampoo won't give me a bad hair day, because it is only 2 miles from a trail head...

So back to “place”- what do you to do find place if you are feeling out of place?  Well I guess you imagine it.  You imagine everything that is good or has ever been good about your world. 

What I've managed to conjure turns out to be my happiest place on earth when I’m not-so-happy.  It is so utterly fantastic, I've started to wonder: is this what heaven would be like?

Fat chance.  I don’t believe in heaven, but if I did, just for giggles, it might go something like this:

My periphery is flooded with green, my eyes fixed down on the smooth, packed trail under my feet.  I’m on a stretch of single-track somewhere in the muggy, lush forests of Maryland that reek of honeysuckle.  I’m moving fast, my feet dancing over the rocks and roots.    

Twinkles-toes. 

It smells like the jasmine bush outside a friend's house in Laguna Beach where I woke up from a nap one Saturday afternoon back in 2003, like needles fallen from the huge Sugar Pines of my mighty Sierra, like Mike when he leaves for work in the morning.  I taste warm, yeasty bread, a hoppy IPA, a spicy Allan Bros Mexican mocha, cold watermelon, good fresh dirt. 

I realize the trail is getting rocky and technical, so I focus down at my gnarled muddy legs and realize I’m chasing six little sweeties.  I hear someone yell “Get ‘em, Aunt Squiddie!” and I look over and see my little sister's beautiful, beaming, dimpled smile.  I’m trying to catch them, I love them so much.  They squeal and scream and sprint away.  I scoop them up one at a time and smother them with love and kisses.  I think I might eat them.  

I hear evening crickets (my South Bay homies) and loud happy guffaws coming from the smiling faces of my best girlfriends sipping margaritas in a Baja cantina.  There is the chatter of a crowd around me in the woods, and I know it’s the GAC.  I look in front of me and see my favorite dirty runner calves.  Then it quiets and I hear just one voice, a dear friend chatting away as we tear up the trail together. 

I’m alone again and moving fast.  I open my heavenly flip-phone.  There is a text from my mom telling me she’s right behind me and reminding me of how strong I am, and one from someone telling me to cru$h it.  

Cru$h it?  Oh, but heaven isn’t for “crushing it”… or is it? 

I start to run, “crushing” the trail in a $arah sort of way…  It isn’t fast, but it is happy and elegant.  The technical parts feel like a dance, the down-hills feel like a race, and the up-hills become my friend.  I look up and see epic views of endless headland and rolling burnt grassy hills.   The air is warm and dry.  The view makes me weak in the knees.   

The trail smooths out again and I realize I’m on the side of Mt. Tam on a relentless climb.  I start to get tired and I hear someone say, “Get up thaht hill Saaraah”, a new voice in my life I don’t know what I’d do without.   

I feel my other little sister's hand on my left shoulder, because that’s where our birds are.  I feel a large hand pat me firmly on the back and a playful voice call me “Sowie-Bowie”, and I know it’s my dad because I feel slightly annoyed (his pats are good and firm) but intensely loved.  I feel a burst of energy and I’m on the move again.  

The midnight sun blinds me and I stop and look up. I’m alone in the Yosemite Valley and Half Dome is towering in front of me.  Uncle Bob is there at the base and we start to climb together- this is probably the only church we ever really shared. Anna and Lenny are at the top waiting for me, and we sit there together eating gummy bears, staring out at the view and laughing out asses off at nothing in particular. 

We descend and I’m alone again in the valley.  Mike appears in front of me with his beautiful smile and sparkling eyes.  He takes my hand and our fingers weave together so very perfectly, like they were meant to be that way for a million years and just needed time to find each other.   

He says, “Hey kid, how’s it going?” and my heart melts at the sound of his deep voice.  I feel like I've come home.   I look back, around, and in front of me and I realize that I just may have everything I ever wanted.  

 Peace.  Place.