This is not the path for addicts to the usual stimulations. To stale habits of valuing. Or perhaps it is exactly the path.

There are species of questions that only sprout on the ‘loneliest’ of trails. Questions are ways of connecting. They can be powerful tricksters, ways of knowing (and hiding) who we are, ways of living accountably (or not) in the world.

What rich conversations one has without the burden of answering!

You may find yourself beginning to divest from inherited maps. May find yourself feeling safe to fling your widest song.

Loneliness is a mirage in the desert. For Who can be lonely with a sky as big as your longing? With sage and scents tagging you with their anti-imperial imprints, with horizons both endlessly beckoning, yet keeping an appropriate distance so you don’t smother one another.

Clouds are prophets, wrestling memories into fluid disappearing shapes portending what may be. Mesas are elders leaking secrets the more silent you are. Antelope and tumbleweed hunt entanglements, Hermit thrushes wrangle melodies, presenting them as spring truths.

Mushrooms are agents of delicate destruction—necessary emissaries from the underworld.

Truth be told, I rarely inhabit the house of loneliness. But when I do, I set out a table and pour cups of fir tip tea, and ask for stories and surprises. It rarely disappoints.

“Loneliness actually tells you where to go,” poet David Whyte provokes. “it’s always a kind of inverse measure of what you actually belong to.”

Its contours mark the exact shape of home. If you would dare to carve it between the horizons of your skin.

“To feel abandoned is to deny the intimacy of your surroundings,” it continues.

Intimacy is easy to avoid with the terrific traffic of amnesias & white walls of withholding modernity offers, but impossible to avoid in truth.

So Connection isn’t the question. Feeling connected is. And for that you have to return your scandalous belongings to the shores of a distant city, dare the ‘loneliest’ Highway, risking permeability.

Even to breathe is to inter-depend. To interdepend is to be more than. If you want in-dependence, you can always stop breathing, though that’s a different type of intimacy.

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