I wavered on committing to this trip because for a period of time I thought perhaps I'd go with someone else, a boyfriend who is no longer a boyfriend. 35 year olds shouldn't have boyfriends, such a juvenile descriptor. But guy-I'm-seeing-and-making-dinner-for-and-talking-about-important-forever-things-with is pretty clunky. It was an important relationship and for a little while, I hoped maybe I'd have someone (with two legs) beside me when I looked up at Mount Rushmore for the first time. So when that relationship ended several weeks ago, my feelings about the trip were muddled, confused. Would it feel sad? Would I be lonely? Would it feel like a trip he was supposed to be on?
The trip wasn't a life-changing, emotionally cataclysmic experience. I always expect explosions when reality is so much quieter, more Roman candle-esque. The drive from Minneapolis to Rapid City, where I stayed, is dull as dirt for the first 6 hours. No rolling hills, just flat, unending grassland and farm country. My dog largely slept, her head resting on my thigh from time to time. I listened to music, to podcasts, to nothing. I talked to myself, to my dog, to everyone who'd ever wronged me, to everyone I felt the urge to apologize to. But those conversations were short-lived and easily dismissed by a stop at a gas station, a new bag of beef jerky. I smiled at memories, cracked the window when my dog farted, and thanked God for cruise control.
I had two full days to explore and I wandered the Badlands (pictured), Black Hills, and many of their famous sites in a busy 48 hours. I was never unhappy to be alone, never embarrassed to say, "table for one," when I stopped at a restaurant. Cell reception was spotty and while occasional wi-fi allowed for photo uploads, texting with friends was largely impossible. My connection to home felt loosely tied.
I keep a list on my phone of things I'm thankful for, my running tally of gratitude. I added several things/moments over the course of the trip, little blessings and larger Roman candle bursts of emotion. I was thankful for sunshine on my shoulders, shade, the squish of mud, cheap wine, the opportunity to climb high enough to be just a little bit scared. I won't say that I never thought of being there with someone. We're relational creatures, bonds and shared experiences are gifts. But I never wished for a shared experience instead of my solo adventure. If given the option for this trip, I'd choose solitude every time.
On the drive home I listened to a podcast, You Made it Weird with Pete Holmes, and for this episode the comedian was joined by Jimmy Kimmel. It was largely silly, a good way to pass a couple hours, listening to each of them talk about their early years, the difficulty of late night television, the pleasure and guilt associated with fortune. Near the end of the podcast Pete asked Jimmy about the meaning of life, and Jimmy referenced the James Taylor song as being the closest approximation of an answer. In the song James Taylor says that the meaning of life is "enjoying the passage of time," and in that moment I felt that was 100% accurate. Yes, there are greater, deeper meanings, love, connection, finding peace, embracing faith, seeking God. But in all those things is also a recognition that time, for us, is finite. The minor mountain scrambles, the cool poke of a dog's nose on your hand, the juice of a peach you have to eat over the sink, the silence you find only in wilderness, enjoying those moments and the passing of them can be meaning, too. And that enjoyment is so personal, so intimately gifted by our Creator, that's what struck me on the drive home. Standing in the Badlands, sunshine beating on my shoulders, scraping my knee on one more tiny climb, I'd never be able to communicate what that felt like for me to anyone else. And for this weekend, I didn't need to try. Just feeling it was enough. Being me in that moment was enough.
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