I’m at street-level, bouncing along behind my dad in a burley light bike trailer, just over a year old and New Zealand unfolding ahead like a giant map at peddling speed. Still the best pace to take things in I think.
I’m five years old and opening the door of our tiny motor home, a kid-sized guitar in hand. Curious where we are today, because every day is different. Imagine! Says my dad, today this is your backyard. Mountains… plains… deserts. Anything was possible.
I’m in the back of our little blue Honda, ten years old, my feet on my little sister’s knees and head against the door - the moon above the only anchor as we roll across the Southwest by night. Still my favorite time to travel.
Now, at thirty-six and with a car packed full of my solo show, there is something effortlessly comfortable about being on the road. Driving away from a place, into the liminal space between here and there - between what was, and what’s next - feels like the ultimate happiness. I find myself physically exhaling a sigh of satisfaction as I drive into the unknown.
This contentment with and yearning for the road was something I pushed against for years; trying to find a semblance of “normal” in one place. It felt like the sacrifice necessary to find work, to find love, to find belonging.
Then, six years ago, I was at the wheel of my car, instruments bouncing along behind me as I rolled through one October night, and it felt like coming home. It was as if I was exhaling after a long journey… and yet, the journey was just beginning.
Now, there’s no going back. The road unfolds ahead and following in its wake feels like the only option. The moon is full, the only anchor as I roll through space.
Imagine! I say to myself each morning. Today this is your backyard.
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