I've had this conversation with a few individuals on different levels in the past. Every time I switch jobs, I'm always taken by surprise when I find out who my friends really are. I've had a few job changes in the past where friends who I considered close, wanted little to do with me once my lifestyle had changed. I can acknowledge that there are work friends and life friends, but I guess I'm a poor judge of which friendships are friendships of convenience.
I knew this time would come. It's sad and lonely when you come to realize that many of your friendships aren't. You can't help but question whether they ever were. Living on the road gives me few opportunities to make new friends. I make plenty of connections, but meaningful friendships are going to be hard to come by.
I took a trip up to Pennsylvania over the weekend of the 4th of July. I put about 2400 miles on the truck, and spent over 40 hours in the saddle. I got to drop in on some friends and family, take care of some vehicle and paperwork issues, swap out some items in storage, and spend some time with my bestest furry pal in the word.
I miss my dog more than many people would understand. She saw me through some tough emotional personal times, and I've never been able to shake the feeling that I left her behind on what would have been the coolest retirement adventure of her life.
She would have struggled here. She would be staying alone in a truck camper for 12 hours a day, her aging legs struggling to climb in and out on the steep steps. I've had an air conditioner failure that likely would have cooked her in her black coat, and many campgrounds won't let you leave an animal alone in the RV.
My trip gave me some closure. I needed to see that she was well adjusted to her new home. She has other dog friends, has taken to playing with toys (something she's never taken to before), and it's clearly her home. I feel a lot better knowing that we're still best pals, but she stayed at her home when I left.
I was surprised just how foreign my old stomping ground felt. I never felt the urge to check on the old house while I was there, despite passing within half a mile of it in my travels. I didn't miss the building whose only comfort was the dismal familiarity that it previously offered.
I didn't buy the house for me. It was the right place, at the right time, at the right price, for the right reasons. When the tire swing in the back yard was discovered, my opinion no longer mattered. As life moved on, people moved out. As time passed, what was left become a daily reminder of my own failures and broken dreams.
My current job has taken over my outlook on neighborhoods, as I drove through previously familiar places subconsciously scanning for meters, fences, property boundaries, and gas line markings that had previously gone completely unnoticed. My old turf became less of an area of boundaries, and more of a series of points of interest. I've spent so much of my time looking at maps on my tablet, that I felt naked driving through areas that I already knew.
I got to visit with the people that I had left behind, and the conversations were different. There was more meaning to them. There was more listening. Just knowing that the time I had there was precious, made for a more involved conversation.
There was a conversation with my sister talking about how some trips just can't be documented. Sometimes you have to put the camera down and experience it. I've occasionally seen the same thing with this blog. Sometimes the documentation dilutes the experiences.
As I bounced from point to point with only a slight regard for planning, it felt bittersweet. I've started what I set out to do. I found myself saying a silent goodbye to my old neighborhood, to the people whose character I've misjudged, to the people who aren't who I thought they were, to the ones I left behind, and to a life that made me feel trapped in a way few understand.
The long drive left plenty of time for introspection. This trip wasn't for the blog. I found closure in knowing that the people I love are still alright. I found unexpected eye watering joy in the words "Welcome to Arkansas". Home no longer has an address.
My journey isn't finished. I'm not sure where I'm headed, and that's the point. This part of my journey can't be quantified or documented. Your metrics no longer apply. This part is personal, and it's mine to walk alone. I've no pictures to share as I was living in the moment. These memories belong to me.
“It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat.”
Theodore Roosevelt
