On Portland.

Upon arriving, something was released. A creative spirit that I have been fighting to find again for a while. I wrote on everything. In journals, text messages, word documents. I wrote in my head, on my heart, with my hands, with my soul. And it didn't even matter that for 22 hours, I was stuck on Mt. Hood, because even though I was near tears and trying not to have a panic attack, I looked up at the sky full of stars that were laughing with wonder and trees that were reaching as high as they could to tell jokes to these giddy stars.

Here's some of what I saw:
It’s like this.
There are power lines racing us on the highway and in between them you can see the choppy expanse of the Columbia River. And the distance between Oregon and Washington she creates is like that of trying to send wings to a fish that loves a bird, yet somehow, the sun knows it’s possible and preens between mountains to watch possibility jump on to dreams’ sinking boat and bail water out fast enough to stay afloat. And wind mills sit upon hills, clad in white and simple strength and pass along new and old love stories to each other, because, you see they don’t spin by wind, but by love. And right now they tell this story. One time there were girls who found sanctuary in the quiet waters of each others’ hearts, and as friends are, these girls were that and more. And their hearts were maps to places yet discovered and held great love yet given. And the wind mills wait for these. They tell each other in strong whispers and quiet songs.

On a drive back from Portland, listening to Rocky Votolato, there are grey clouds and clear skies who meet overhead to show us that opposing forces can, at some perfect times, lay in bed together and share common stories of heartache and harmony.

That's all for now.
Sweet heart, slow heart, find your way home.

Still, I came back to Oklahoma and it rained. I felt like Oklahoma was saying, "Whit, stay a while." And while it is different than Oregon rain, I'll still take it. Portland rain is slow and healing, but midwest rain comes in a fury or two, because sometimes you have to wash everything away and start from scratch. And so I lied in my living room last night, alone, with only light from the movie 27 Dresses and hard, healing rain in the background, I felt strangely whole, yet still lost. But, that seems to be the way of us. Strangers, sojourners, and truth seekers.

I am just a nomad, sojourning towards home, as I carry home with me. (in my heart).