the horizon.

I saw my horizon.

Eight months ago, I sat slumped over in a bed, imagining what it might look like.
I knew it was important, that horizon. That moment I would be driving into it, with the sun slowing setting behind the curve of the earth.

Driving into some of the quietest parts of Colorado, I sat and stared into it. I remembered being so lost and down. How stuffy it was in that room, where everything happened. Where I imagined this part of my life changing in ways I’d never imagined.

If I was able to fall asleep, I would think about this horizon. My symbol of change. My symbol of moving.

The hills, waning and waxing like the moon.

I kept my eyes on the horizon.


I thought deep about my pain. Those hard goodbyes where all I wanted to say was this: Thank you. Thank you for taking care of me.

So much pain in goodbyes.

But I kept my eyes on that horizon.

I passed some buffalo, quiet but strong as they stomped through the tall grass. They didn’t mind me pulling over to watch for a while. It was kind of lonely out there. I’m sure a couple of weary travelers marveling at their grace and enormity was okay.

I started feeling stronger. More at rest. Less weary, more so ready to get goin’ – that’s what I would say. “Ah, gotta keep goin’ gotta keep movin’.”

And so we drove. A busted tire on the side of a white mountain. All of my belongings hanging on Monarch Pass — I reevaluated their worth. My stand mixer sitting alongside some cookbooks and an old writer’s box that I hold very dear to me.

We kept moving.

I realized the horizon never ends.

Which is why, in the depth of my sadness, it was all I could see. Something to move towards. Something that would take me to another place.

And now, I find myself resting on a bed, deep in the belly of Mississippi. Tired. Sad. Excited. Relaxed. Ready.

Ready for what might happen next…

ready to steady the wheel on that horizon.


5 responses to “the horizon.”

  1. I wonder what that means – – to be “deep in the belly of Mississippi”. I suppose having spent most of my life here, I’ve never considered it as having a belly, though it can often feel much like a beast as any other place can.

    I reckon there’s a belly and plenty of sadness anywhere you go. I’m a gypsy at heart so I’ve learned it the hard way. As my favorite author said, (and I paraphrase) “Experience is a most brutal teacher, but my God do you learn.”

  2. The temptation to be re-ingested into that belly’s depth undulates for me. Of course, our stories are different, as all stories really are – but something about the place will always define the formative parts of me and temper into my experieces out in the rest of the world.

    Welcome home. Remind us how it is often. And eat some shrimp for me…

  3. Hello Josh,
    We have never met, but I wish we had. I haven’t read your entire blog (yet), but what I have read has left me in a state of astonishment.

    You mentioned that you are a “nerd”. What the heck are you talking about? You are not a nerd and you know it. Nerds are completely socially inept and you are most assuredly not that.

    You are many things and have many gifts, that is quite obvious. And, you may be a first-class chef, by trade, but your true “calling” is as a poet.

    I’m an old woman who has never actually met you, but this is how I see you:

    You are incredibly courageous. Not many people can put their thoughts; feelings; heart; and soul “out there” for all the world to see, but you can and do. And, you do it so eloquently and poetically. You can obviously express yourself in a way that leaves others envious and grateful at the same time.

    The one thing you must never do is to destroy your blog. There will come a time when you will be healed of this pain you are feeling, but do not destroy this blog. Save it and in ten years time, go back and read it. You will discover just how beneficial this will be.

    (I’m not saying it will take you 10 years to heal.)  People going through divorce need to grieve and heal just as people do who have suffered a loss through the death of a loved one. On average, that grieving process and healing takes about 3 years. For some people it takes less time than that, for some people it takes more time than that. You are incredibly mentally healthy, so I would venture to guess that your healing may not take as long as some.

    There is a rare beauty about you. I know that may sound a little odd since most people do not use the word “beauty” to describe a male, but beauty is the correct word for you.


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