It’s been over two months since I wrote “The quest,” a post about our trek up to Kintla Lake, Montana. I talked about having left my soul there during the summer of 1978, returning with Deb that murky September day to retrieve it.
At least once since then she’s remarked — good-naturedly, I believe — about me having my soul back. “He sure doesn’t seem any different,” she said to a friend.
Oh, but I am.
That pilgrimage restored the essence of who I am, the most personal and most guarded part of me. I don’t imagine the result to be conspicuous. I also don’t expect it to be fully understood, not even by the person closest to me — it’s enough that I understand. It’s enough that I know.
What I can tell you about this newfound wholeness, whether or not it’s visible, is that it carries a certain peace, courage, resolve and purpose.
On this Thanksgiving Eve, Deb and I are far from old friends, much of our family and the place we’ve called “home” for many years, and yet we’re right where we want to be. It feels like everything that’s happened over the last year brought us to this point.
Tomorrow we’ll celebrate the holiday with Deb’s cousin and friends up on The Mountain. Come Friday we won’t be be joining the hordes storming Retail America, either physically or virtually.
We’ll resume preparing for the next chapter of our American Life. We might go out for a drive, or we may just hang around the campground. One way or the other, we’ll use the time to make progress toward what’s next.
And to that end — even if you don’t have the faintest clue what I’m talking about — reclaiming my soul has made a difference. That peace, courage, resolve and purpose serve me well as we move forward.
Take care of yourselves, Patriots. Stay calm. Stay sharp. Stay free.