The Doctor of Divinity and the Missing Painted Pots

When I travel for a month or more, I rent my house out. I put my valuables in a locked space and move my other personal items into my kids’ closets. The first few days after I come home, I have to put my house back together, but it’s worth the hassle.

When I got back from Norway on July 24, I pulled all the stuff out of its assorted hidey-holes, and put it all away, relieved to be wearing all cotton again and to use my electric toothbrush. But weirdly, even when I had emptied all the boxes, there were a few random things I could not find.

The first thing I noticed was the hand-painted Armenian pottery I bought in Israel in 1994, and use to store my make-up brushes and Q-tips. Also missing was my favorite navy “Adventure Rabbi” sweatshirt, my favorite quilted vest, and my flannel bathrobe. (I noticed these quickly as I reached for soft clothes to wear since I no longer needed the synthetic or wool clothing needed on a wet and cold bike trip).

My toothbrush charger was gone among other things; I won’t bore you with the list but none of them were things someone would steal. Obviously, I had packed them away too well.

All during August, I rummaged through my storage closets, my kids’ rooms, random boxes, the garage, and the cabinets in the kitchen, but to no avail. Last week I gave in and replaced the sweatshirt and the quilted vest, but decided rather than buying new make-up brushes, I would stop wearing make-up. Problem solved.

But the truth be told, it niggled me to not be able to find the stuff and despite my commitment to, “This is what I look like! Take it or leave it!” I little eye shadow now and then might help a few other things along. The time had come to either find the stuff or replace what I needed.

Saturday morning, I woke up early, did some yoga, made a chocolate-banana-cherry protein shake (yes, it’s as good as it sounds), and got to work. My legs were just that right amount of sore (meaning I wasn’t itching to go ride) from my big bike ride the day before, so I was all set for search day.

I started with the kids’ rooms. They seemed the most likely place. Their closets were where I had stored my stuff, admittedly neatly at first, but then literally cramming in a yoga mat, a sweater, the knife block with my really good knives, a ream of special paper, and so on until I had to lean against the doors to close them. I had removed most of my things but maybe I missed a box. The missing stuff must be there amidst my kid's things!

My kids moved out two years ago, so they have already sorted through their rooms and taken what they wanted. What was left was their cast-offs, some of which I find precious, but most of which needed a new home.

I pulled everything out of those rooms and carefully selected what to keep. I set aside some boxes for my kids, just in case someday they change their minds about what is precious. I hope they will, but even if they don’t, I will give them that choice.

I opened three folding tables in front of my garage, advertised my garage sale (giveaways) to my neighbors and members of the local Buy Nothing Group, made a big sign “FREE! ENJOY!” and piled the tables with giveaways. All day cheerful people walked away with art supplies, a computer monitor, books, and so on.

Whenever I came out with a new load and spotted something had been claimed, I wondered what new home it had found. A family who recently moved here from Israel, made my day when they came by later to thank me for the goods their kids picked out.

Hours later, the kids’ rooms looked neat and clean, but I did not find my stuff.

Next, I moved to the linen closet. Again, I pulled everything out, sorted and folded it, and added more items for the giveaway table. A Girl Scout was thrilled with the green Thin Mint tablecloth for her cookie sale and I was thrilled with my organized linen closet, towels neatly folded, and corners stacked, but I did not find my stuff.

Then it was onto my own room, which I have checked a zillion times already. First, I relocated some of my clothing into the kids’ rooms, keeping only what I wear the most often. Now my closet looks like one of those advertisements that you look at and say, “Yes but who only has 5 shirts and 5 dresses?” I did the same with the dresser, moving the things I don’t wear often into Sadie’s dresser. I got rid of all the socks I never liked anyway, all the jeans that I could fit in if I...

I recycled the hangers that didn’t match and climbed on a step stool to wipe down the top shelf of my closet, and still, I did not find my stuff.

Next came the vanity. Now this I had already completely emptied and sorted through twice in the last month. Why? Because I had a very clear memory of putting all those beautiful pots in one of the drawers and remarking on how well they fit. I went through all the drawers again, because they must be right there in front of me, and I didn’t see them.

Out came all the lotions and potions, into the trash went all the out-of-date products, that lotion that I bought but never liked the smell, the pump I had kept just in case Aveda stopped giving pumps with the large shampoo containers (they did that once 10 years ago but have since resumed and clearly I am still scarred), all the travel size shampoos because really I never use them, and now my vanity drawers were all organized and clean, but still, I did not find my stuff.

I ended the day with a very, very clean house but still no idea where my pretty painted pots were hiding.

I awoke this morning, yoga, bike ride, protein shake – you get the pattern- and then I decided that it was time to give up and replace a few things. Although I aspire to never wear make-up again, I do occasionally have to spiff up a bit. The time had come to go to buy make-up brushes.

So there I stood, at my vanity, brushing my hair to go to Sephora when I again remembered the conversation with my renter. We spoke while I was standing right in this spot, cleaning out the vanity drawers for her arrival. She said, “I don’t have very much. You really don’t need to clear out your things. Just a drawer or two will do it.” I clearly remembered easing those pretty blue pots into the drawer of my vanity and suddenly – it clicked. I had it.

Not the vanity drawer. The dresser drawer. That drawer, the bottom right drawer of my dresser, what is in there? Did I ever look there? I know what is in each one of the dresser drawers but what is in that one?

Five quick steps across the room, slide the drawer open, and there it all was. The sweet painted pots with make-up brushes still in them, the soft blue sweatshirt, the well-loved quilted vest, and more.

You know that feeling of relief when you find something you’ve been looking for? It’s like a click, and phew, everything is in place, everything is as it should be.

I know they are just “things” and I am happy to have them all back.

But the point that I’m really stuck on this long Labor Day weekend, is the “Doctor of Divinity lesson” that comes with this one.

How often in life are we searching, searching, searching and the thing we are looking for is right there?

Just open the drawer.

What is the metaphorical drawer that I am not seeing? That I am not opening?

When I slide it open, it will all be there, and I’ll have that feeling of click, and phew, everything is in place, everything is as it should be.

This Labor Day weekend, with kids who no longer live in my home, with empty clean rooms where there used to be paint and homework and snacks squirreled away in desks, with my sister and her family so far away, with my parents gone, I am looking for the drawer.

Please? Where is it?

Norway Trip 2024

 Norway Trip 2024

Miles: 1,513.6

Vertical Climbed: 78,124 feet (2.7 x Everest)

People Inspired to Call their Mothers: 78

A month ago, when I started this trip I wanted to answer specific questions. Now, a month later, those questions seem far too simple compared to the depth of the learning I did. But I will answer them.

In June I wrote:

My goal is to answer these questions:

1. Solo travel:

- How do I feel about traveling solo for a month?

- Is it lonely? Liberating?

- Do I meet people?

- Do I feel safe?

2. Extending Biking:

- Do I like being in the saddle every day?

- Am I bored?

- Do I want to keep going?

3. Bumble

- Is a bike trip better than a dating app?

- And maybe even better than a chairlift? (For those of you who know that story.)

4. Socks:

- 2 pairs or 3?

And the big question: In 2026, when I am no longer working full-time for Adventure Rabbi, do I want to embark on an extended, multi-month bike trip?

My answers:

1. Solo travel:

- I do love solo travel; I did feel safe; I did not feel lonely.

- I did meet people, although not anyone I will likely see again.

2. Extending Biking:

- I loved being in the saddle every day; I did not get bored

- A month seemed like the perfect amount of time. If I were to keep going, after a month I'd need to rent an apartment for a few days, wash my clothes, eat vegetables, call my sister, replace my shirt, and rest my legs. It would also be a good time to visit a friend or meet up with friends to ride together for a bit.

3. Bumble

-A bike trip is better than a dating app because you don't get excited and then disappointed, and you don't have to put on makeup. The net is the same either way. 0.

- A chair lift is still a better dating mechanism. You get 10 minutes during the ride to talk followed by a built-in first date to see if they can actually ski!

4. Socks:

- 2 pairs of socks would have been fine as long as one was Smart Wool. But 3 was nice.

And the big question: In 2026, when I am no longer working full-time for Adventure Rabbi, do I want to embark on an extended, multi-month bike trip?

I'm still not really clear on this. I love cycling but I also love skiing. I don't think I would give up a season of skiing to go bike-touring. But maybe part of the year. Or maybe a month was the perfect amount of time.

Thanks to you all for being on my team. I am sure that the reason I did not get lonely was because of you. It meant so much to me when you liked or commented on my posts. Thanks for taking this adventure with me!

July 15, Risohamn to Torken, then onto Skland July 16 and Sommaroya on July 17

 July 15, Risohamn to Torken, then onto Skland July 16 and Sommaroya on July 17

When I unzipped my tent and looked out, a white mist had descended, shrouding the mountains and filling the valley. It was wet and cold, but so it often was in Norway.

My plan was to pack my gear, and then head up the road, hopefully, 15-20 miles, eat my breakfast (bike oats, recipe below), and then find a place to recharge all my devices. Two days of wild camping drained them all. (Yes, yes, I know I should have brought a solar charger. Add it to the list along with the cotton t-shirt and the boyfriend to massage my neck. Or maybe those should be separate lists.)

Packs loaded, I clipped into my pedals and had only ridden a couple of miles, when I spotted a lodge that looked like an Adirondack lodge transported to Norway. There were flower boxes overflowing with blooms, weather-worn wooden siding, and huge windows overlooking the fjord. The only indication that it was Norway and not the Adirondacks was the grass growing on the roof! Andoy Friluftssenter, the sign said.

Out front, a boy was mowing the grass, which is a rare sight in Norway. Norwegians love electric robot lawnmowers (like our vacuum cleaners) and they travel constantly across the grass keeping it short. They’re adorable! You only see a person mowing if the grass has gotten too high for the robots.

The lodge looked so warm and cozy and a cuppa tea sounded so good, that I turned off the road, and headed up the driveway to the lodge.

I got off the bike, walked up to the door, and was greeted by a large sign that said, “CLOSED, Hours 12 noon to 8 pm.” Disappointed, I turned around and headed back to my bike, but as I passed the dining room windows, I saw two motorcyclists drinking coffee and a person at another table eating toast. (If you have been reading these essays you know where we are going.)

I turned around and went back. I opened the door, walked directly into the dining room, and said, “The sign says closed but you look like you’re eating!”

The man at the table alone answered in a lovely British accent, “True. I seem to be eating breakfast. Nigel Is around here somewhere, I’m sure he will help you.”

Assuming Nigel was the server (turns out he was the owner) I went back to the lobby to find him. “Is it possible to have a cup of tea?” I asked.

“Black tea with milk and sugar?” He asked, also coincidentally with a British accent.

“That would be great,” I said. “And could I possibly charge my devices while I drink the tea?”

Nigel led me to a delightfully comfortable leather couch, next to a dual outlet so I could charge my devices. Then he brought me a large pot of hot tea, a pitcher of milk, and a glass cut bowl with brown sugar cubes as in, “One lump or two?” He set it all down on a tree stump in use as a table. Perfection.

I had all my devices plugged in and milk and sugar (1 lump please) added to my tea. I took my first oh-so-warm sip and then I had an idea.

Quickly before I could think too hard about it, I went back into the dining room, walked right up to the Brit who was still eating his toast, and said, “Want company while you finish your breakfast?”

“Yes, please join me,” he said.

And so I sat, and we talked, and soon I brought my entire teapot, milk, and sugar over. He was a Brit living in Sweden. Also, a cyclist. Also heading to Tromso. Also catching a flight to Oslo on Saturday. Also at the point in his trip where instead of making miles, he needed to slow down so as to not get to Tromso early.

We talked so long that the mist cleared off. We talked so long that Nigel cleared the breakfast buffet and started to set the lunch buffet. We talked so long that the boy finished mowing the grass. We talked so long that all my devices were fully charged.

And then we kept on talking, for the rest of the week. I got to hear those great British words like “brilliant,” “krikey,” and “posh.” Rich loved to “faff around” with his gear, and the weather was “stable” or “unstable.” And I got to have companionship for the remainder of the trip.

I’d say we cycled together, which we did a little, but mostly we rode our own pace and caught up at the ferries or the campgrounds. It was more like the parallel play they talk about it preschool.

We were unlikely partners- he made hotel reservations months in advance. I made mine when I rolled my bike into the lobby and was certain I’ll arrive and liked the lobby.

He rode faster than I did, 14 mph to my 10, but I packed up camp much faster than he did. So generally, I left camp and then he caught me later in the day.

We had entirely different packing techniques. I stuffed everything into my two panniers and, although I pretended to have a system, at least 3 times a day had to take it all out to find something. He had a specific place for everything in his 8 sleek bike bags, but it took him hours and hours to put it there.

We both got a lot of joy from our way of doing things and at the end of the day, we got to the same place, so who is to say which is the right way?

We filled our water bottles from glacier runoff, swam in the fjords late at night, raced to get ferries, teamed up with other cyclists, did hikes under the midnight sun, and swam some more. We talked and laughed and poked fun at each other.

We visited Senja, known to be one of the most beautiful islands in the Arctic. I had no idea there are white sand beaches, green and blue waters, or swimming in the Arctic! It looks like Bora Bora.

At night, when we crawled into our tents, there was something comforting about seeing our two bikes leaned up against each other, as if they too were finding comfort in the companionship.

When we finally arrived in Tromso, we explored the city together, figuring out the bus routes and the associated apps, finding me cotton clothes to buy, and lingering over celebratory drinks and dinner.

I am well suited for solo cycling travel, except for two aspects- hanging out at beautiful places (I should have brought a paperback. Add that to the list.) and exploring cities. How perfect that I met Richard during the section of the trip that included lingering in beautiful places and exploring a city.

Traveling with him also helped me figure out how I could do a trip like this with someone else.

I don’t think our paths will cross again, but I am so thankful that they did. I experienced so much joy just because I walked up to a table and said, “Do you want some company while you finish your breakfast?”

A side note about tea vs coffee.

Most of the time in Norway, I drink coffee. The coffee is $4 a cup and is excellent. Unlike at home where I find the coffee bitterer and in need of sugar, here the coffee is perfectly delicious, although I usually add milk. But they do not have a tradition of refills. Quite sad as one cup of coffee is never enough to warm me up. (We’ve already discussed cold and wet.)

Tea in contrast, is served by the pot and that is why I ordered a pot. Also it reminds me of my friend Annie, who always makes me a cuppa, which warms my heart and soul.

Jamie’s Recipe for Bike Trip Morning Oats

 Jamie’s Recipe for Bike Trip Morning Oats

1. Ride 10 miles.

2. Pour half a cup of oats into a coffee mug (or any container with a cover)

3. Add any, but at least one of these:

- Cinnamon

- Salt

- Sugar

- Pecans (or other dried fruit of nut)

- Smooshed banana

4. Pour in enough cold water to cover everything plus a bit more and stir well.

5. Cover and put back in your panniers.

6. Ride 5-10 more miles and eat.

Delicious.

July 13-14, 2024 Fishermans’ homes do not have windows facing the sea.

 July 13-14, 2024

Fishermans’ homes do not have windows facing the sea.

————————-

I waved - as I do - at a couple, sitting on their deck, enjoying the late night sun.

And he waved back, and then they both waved and smiled, and then quick as a wink, I rode past the neat, white house, with the friendly couple on its deck.

And that could have been it, a moment that I would have quickly forgotten. A petite well-kept house, like many others, with the fjord behind it and massive green peaks across from it, joining many similar sights, barely registering as I glide by.

But this time, I didn’t just pass.

This time, I circled back.

Why did I circle back? Because they waved. Because it was getting late and I was having trouble finding a camp spot. Because I felt brave after the last time I turned around to talk. But mostly, because they smiled.

And we swapped the Norwegian greetings, “Hey, hey!” and made small talk, and soon I was explaining, “I’ve been looking for a place to camp, but it all seems to be private land. Do you have any suggestions?”

She looked at him and they nodded at each other, and then she said, “It is all private land, but you are welcome to camp on our land.”

I thanked them, that would be great, and they asked,

Where are you from? From where have you cycled?

Where are you heading?

Have you been planning this for a long time?

Alone?!?

Do you get lonely?

And soon, I was sitting on the porch with them, drinking a cold beer, sharing my thoughts about loneliness and life, and telling stories of my trip, like the travelers of old who went from town to town entertaining the townsfolk with tales of their journeys.

And soon, I was asking questions, Do you live here full time? How old is the house? Why are there no windows facing the sea?

And soon we were sharing back and forth, meaningful questions and thoughtful answers.

And soon, as the late night turned chilly, we were sitting in their living room, a space we filled with curious questions.

We talked about the things you talk about with someone you want to get to know, someone who interests you, someone who comes from a different culture, which creates differences, and yet so many similarities. Someone with whom you would eagerly go out for a cup of coffee or for an evening stroll.

And soon, I was luxuriating in a hot shower, and drying off with a plush towel, so much larger than my tiny camp towel.

And soon, I was snug under a duvet in their guest room, while the black out shades blocked out the bright midnight sun.

And soon, I was awakening to the smell of coffee, dark and rich, which was delicious. And brown bread with brown cheese, and homemade rhubarb jam and another cup of coffee, and she and I were talking about bike touring and how she’s always wanted to do do a tour, but the obstacles around how to take time off? Could she really do it alone? Would her son join for a week? And maybe her husband for a section? And now I felt I had a gift to give - how she could do it, how the obstacles could be overcome. The national bike route winds in front of her home- imagine her riding it next summer!

They had gifted me companionship, a comfortable place to sleep, and delightful conversation. And perhaps I had given her the inspiration to follow her dream.

It’s hard to meet people on a bike trip. Usually, it’s just a wave or a nod, a fleeting acknowledgement of a fellow bike traveler or a cheery wave to a person mowing their lawn.

Or if you’re going in the same direction as someone, you might meet up at campsites or lunch spot. But unless you ride similar speeds and distances, it’s hard to engage with someone long enough to have a meaningful interaction.

Add the challenge of finding someone who speaks the same language, and the odds of finding someone who you are genuinely interested in talking with, and it’s very hard to meet people on a bike trip. The evening was like a social oasis!

When Bente and I hugged good bye the next morning, my heart was full.

I hope she takes her bike tour next summer. Maybe we would even ride together for a stretch.

And I hope that I continue to be brave enough to turn around and say, “Hey, hey!”

Bente’s grandfather, a fisherman, constructed this house without windows that faced the sea. After long and dangerous days on the water, he did not want to look at it. So too, we decide where we want to focus. Right now, I choose to build my windows toward moments of connection, including this one with the fisherman’s granddaughter.

July 13-14, 2024

Fishermans’ homes do not have windows facing the sea.

————————-

I waved - as I do - at a couple, sitting on their deck, enjoying the late night sun.

And he waved back, and then they both waved and smiled, and then quick as a wink, I rode past the neat, white house, with the friendly couple on its deck.

And that could have been it, a moment that I would have quickly forgotten. A petite well-kept house, like many others, with the fjord behind it and massive green peaks across from it, joining many similar sights, barely registering as I glide by.

But this time, I didn’t just pass.

This time, I circled back.

Why did I circle back? Because they waved. Because it was getting late and I was having trouble finding a camp spot. Because I felt brave after the last time I turned around to talk. But mostly, because they smiled.

And we swapped the Norwegian greetings, “Hey, hey!” and made small talk, and soon I was explaining, “I’ve been looking for a place to camp, but it all seems to be private land. Do you have any suggestions?”

She looked at him and they nodded at each other, and then she said, “It is all private land, but you are welcome to camp on our land.”

I thanked them, that would be great, and they asked,

Where are you from? From where have you cycled?

Where are you heading?

Have you been planning this for a long time?

Alone?!?

Do you get lonely?

And soon, I was sitting on the porch with them, drinking a cold beer, sharing my thoughts about loneliness and life, and telling stories of my trip, like the travelers of old who went from town to town entertaining the townsfolk with tales of their journeys.

And soon, I was asking questions, Do you live here full time? How old is the house? Why are there no windows facing the sea?

And soon we were sharing back and forth, meaningful questions and thoughtful answers.

And soon, as the late night turned chilly, we were sitting in their living room, a space we filled with curious questions.

We talked about the things you talk about with someone you want to get to know, someone who interests you, someone who comes from a different culture, which creates differences, and yet so many similarities. Someone with whom you would eagerly go out for a cup of coffee or for an evening stroll.

And soon, I was luxuriating in a hot shower, and drying off with a plush towel, so much larger than my tiny camp towel.

And soon, I was snug under a duvet in their guest room, while the black out shades blocked out the bright midnight sun.

And soon, I was awakening to the smell of coffee, dark and rich, which was delicious. And brown bread with brown cheese, and homemade rhubarb jam and another cup of coffee, and she and I were talking about bike touring and how she’s always wanted to do do a tour, but the obstacles around how to take time off? Could she really do it alone? Would her son join for a week? And maybe her husband for a section? And now I felt I had a gift to give - how she could do it, how the obstacles could be overcome. The national bike route winds in front of her home- imagine her riding it next summer!

They had gifted me companionship, a comfortable place to sleep, and delightful conversation. And perhaps I had given her the inspiration to follow her dream.

It’s hard to meet people on a bike trip. Usually, it’s just a wave or a nod, a fleeting acknowledgement of a fellow bike traveler or a cheery wave to a person mowing their lawn.

Or if you’re going in the same direction as someone, you might meet up at campsites or lunch spot. But unless you ride similar speeds and distances, it’s hard to engage with someone long enough to have a meaningful interaction.

Add the challenge of finding someone who speaks the same language, and the odds of finding someone who you are genuinely interested in talking with, and it’s very hard to meet people on a bike trip. The evening was like a social oasis!

When Bente and I hugged good bye the next morning, my heart was full.

I hope she takes her bike tour next summer. Maybe we would even ride together for a stretch.

And I hope that I continue to be brave enough to turn around and say, “Hey, hey!”

Bente’s grandfather, a fisherman, constructed this house without windows that faced the sea. After long and dangerous days on the water, he did not want to look at it. So too, we decide where we want to focus. Right now, I choose to build my windows toward moments of connection, including this one with the fisherman’s granddaughter.

July 17 Swiss Cyclist Reunited with True Love

Remember that day, I rode, head down, across the tundra, trying to make the 5 PM ferry? (I did make it .)

While I flew along, I spotted a small stuff bag, which I could tell was dropped by a cyclist just because of where it was on the road. it was a small blue stuff sack that holds a lightweight raincoat or something similar.

I quickly stopped, picked it up and jammed it into my pocket, not taking the time to open it because every minute counted.

When I arrived at the ferry, - 5 minutes before loading- I went around to each of the 10 cyclists who are waiting for the ferry and asked if anyone had dropped it. But nobody had.

On the ferry, I opened it up and found it was a lightweight Osprey brand pack.

The next day, as I was cycling, a couple flew by me and I recognized her long blonde braid. That same braid had flown past me the day before.

I shouted, “Did you drop a small blue bag yesterday? “

They immediately yanked on their brakes and pulled over, as did I. She said with great excitement, “ I was hoping someone would pick it up. I remembered passing you and hoped you would!”

It was her favorite backpack and she was so sad to have lost it.

July 15

 It’s 44 miles across the tundra, to reach the ferry to Senja, which leaves at 5 pm.

An arctic headwind blows relentlessly.

The road is flat, yet I’m in my easiest gear, straining, straining, straining.

I zip my hood up and tuck myself in.

The world shrinks down to me and the white line on the road.

July 15 Delores

 She says her name is Delores.

I break into song and she and he join me, “Dolores! I live in fear. My love for you’s so overpowering, I’m afraid I’ll disappear. Slip sliding away…”

He says, “The acoustics in the tunnels in Norway are amazing; have you tried singing in them?”

He says that he’s thinking of starting a vocal group. “We will meet once a year on our bikes, in the tunnels in Norway and sing together.”

I say, “Count me in.”

She says she is from New Zealand and has been cycling for 18 weeks. She speaks in “I”pronouns. I ask if they are together and she says yes. But as she describes their trip to the Netherlands, down the Rhine, and finally to Inverness, she does not use “we” pronouns. But he does. Is this a sign of independence? A revolt? A fissure?

Once again, pronouns baffle me. I can tell they convey something important, but I can’t decipher what.

They are camping across the way, and point to a small cove with a white beach, protected from the wind that is blowing from the north. They have crossed the street to this stream to get drinking water.

“There are reindeer,” he says. “You can’t see them from here, but we saw them earlier on the beach. We thought, ‘How can we not camp where there are reindeer?’ “

I hope that they will invite me to join them. I want to see the reindeer and I want to get to know these people. But they don’t, so I continue cycling up the road for another hour or two, into the headwind, in search of my own cove.

Claire Morrow, a Louise Penny character, says her fear is, “not realizing when she has found paradise.”

I see a small break in the trees, a vague path heading toward a grassy knoll, beside the fjord. I also do not want to miss paradise and this spot, high above the Arctic Circle, which took so much effort to get to, but could easily be missed by simply riding by that last small turn, may be it.

Another cove for which words are inadequate. Perfect? Magical? Astounding?Awe inspiring? A quiet place beneath the midnight sun.

Here, a small crescent-shaped, white-sand beach, protected from the wind by a copse of trees, a rock worn smooth by the tide on which to cook, looking out at the mountains and the midnight sun as it comes down, contemplates its next move, and rises again.

I make dinner on the rock. I sit in the grass and watch the sun. I listen to the birds. I watch the waves. I climb into my sleeping bag and hope I won’t forget how much I love sleeping in a tent when I’m back home next week.

Later, awake again, I look out my tent at the mountain, and the sun, and the now-calm ocean, and the grasses. I am having trouble sleeping, which is unusual for me.

Because the sun is so bright? Because I’ve had too much caffeine? Because I miss my sister? I wonder if I’ve run out of profound thoughts, even as I’ve almost run out of miles. Each successive day, each successive mile, there have been fewer and fewer thoughts. Maybe it’s time to go home.

And then I hear the whisper, the longing of my heart, the quiet voice that has been here this entire trip but too soft to hear, “I wish I could share this with my child.”

A different line from that Delores song by Paul Simon flits by, “He kissed his boy while he lay sleeping thenhe turned around and headed home again.“

And a tear slides down my cheek.