I’m frantically taking care of last-minute packing and myriad details before I can leave. I’m excited. I’m dreading the thousands of miles sitting in a bus. But mostly I’m thrilled to be given this opportunity.
My neighbor is keeping an eye on my beloved house. I will miss the rhythms of my life within it – get up, grind coffee, etc. I will have every familiar rhythm disrupted every single day for the next six or seven weeks. And my butt will be wore out.
When I complain, my friend Bill reminds me that the pioneers made this journey in Conestoga wagons. No contoured foam on those seats.
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