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Grant’s Journal

January 1, 2023

What time is it?

That’s the first thing Kim asks me when she wakes up, and I always say, “It’s early.” Why? Because I want her to roll into me and sleep some more. Her back is as soft as baby skin.

God, her back. I know it too well. Sometimes it’s all she lets me see.

I feel like I’m running my hands on her back right now. The exact topography of her body exists in my brain. Now I’m into maps. I’m learning how to read them like an old-time explorer, looking for the contour lines, summits and spurs, saddles and reentrants. I learned Kim with my own body. The same way I’m learning the landscape here with my feet. Every knob of her spine, every rib. The soft baby hairs that spring from her hairline. The tan lines from her bathing suit straps. She has seven little moles on her right shoulder. One-two-three-four-five-six-seven. They form an upside-down J. A candy cane. A hook.

She hooked me.

Now she wants to throw me back.

Tell me, what use is this map without the terrain? It’s about as good as a map of the lost city of Atlantis. A mythical place just out of reach.

I wish I were under the covers in a warm bed with Kim right now. I want to pull her close and become one thing. I miss the ease between us, the way it was when we met. We ought to celebrate our anniversary today. Instead, I’m seeking clarity about us on my own.

Lately, Kim has been looking at me like I’m a decision that needs to be made.

When she wakes up this morning, I won’t be there to tell her it’s early. But I don’t want to stick around for her to tell me it’s too late.

Maybe she’ll think I’m gone again. Maybe she’ll think I’m hiking. It’s the same thing now.

I’m going to have an old-school adventure. Hobie says I need to become more self-reliant, so I ditched him. Today I need to hike commando, purposefully going off-trail without a phone. No Garmin. Just a compass and a map.

I’m on a solitary journey.

He warned me about winter hiking. What does he know about winter? Snow and ice? No problem. No such thing as bad weather, just bad gear. I have a base layer, a mid-layer, a shell. A balaclava that makes me look like an earthworm. Gloves, my pack, some protein bars, and a water bottle. The key is to stay dry.

I’m doing an out-and-back that’ll save the sweaty stuff for the end. An out-and-back. Story of my life.

This is a new story now.

Three miles down to see Cedar Springs.

When I get there, I’m going to create a sacred space the way Cassie suggested. And then I’ll meditate and decide if I can go forward in our relationship as the partner I need to be.

Then I’ll hike back.

Easy and then hard.

I’ve got a thermos full of coffee. The Jeep is nice and warm. Sun is rising. There’s nobody else here that I can see. I’m about to go. I’ll stop writing now, not because I don’t have things to say. I always have things to say. I’ve got everything I need. I’ll begin.

I used to feel lost when I was gone. Now, this is where I feel found.