These are my friends this morning, a day marking the potential woven into independence. They are my comforts when the day yawns, cool with dew, in front of me: my stove and pot full of hot water, my goochie-ultra-extravagant titanium cup, my orange steed ready to carry me down the road, the tent that keeps the rain and bugs outside when I nod off into utter vulnerability in these strange places. There is also the stainless steel water bottle I found in a dumpster, my cushy sleeping pad that carries the weight of my dreams without complaint. Yes, my socks are cold from walking through tall grass wet with morning, and my eyes are those of an old man -- bleary, sunken with age, too little sleep, all but blind to things up close, but sharp still to all that is far away -- but I sit with all these friends while birds sing and the road waits. I do not know what I will see today, who I will meet. All of that is mystery that can only be revealed by the courage to stand, gather my belongings, and move into the unknown. It helps to have friends who say I will help you; you can do this, even if you feel the cold wind of solitude, the driven rain of exposure to the surprise and possibility of traveling alone with friends.
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