Journal Three: Diary of the Open Road

Diary of the Open Road

Diary of the Open Road: Saturday Morning Thoughts

Writings from a Coffee Shop in Portland, OR




9:09 am, May 6th, 2017

I often find myself repeating the same stories over and over again. Most of the time to different people. Sometimes, on accident, to the same person (sorry Morgan). I think it's natural to have significant life moments that will permanently hold a place in memory and become available when the opportunity arises to release them once again. 

I believe holding our own stories in open hands gives way for freedom for others to share with you, and so it goes. 

And I wonder which memories will linger through the years. Which experiences, places, people, events will I catalogue in my mind to pull from when my youth has faded and I'm sitting across the table from a person fifty years younger than myself who reminds me of the girl I was in my twenties. 

What will I remember? 

I suppose I really can't say for sure, but I have a suspicion that this particular journey will always hold a significant place in my heart. 








10:43 am, May 6th, 2017

I've already forgotten names of cities we've passed through. I've lost count of the number of days that have gone by since we left home. I'm even beginning to struggle to recall the number of states we've visited when asked, and the history of our route. 

But there are things I do remember almost exactly as they happened. I remember the breakdowns. I remember the conversations in our mechanic's car as she drove us to Wendy's after 5 hours in the shop. She talked about her upcoming wedding and how she could never handle the cold up north. Let alone the five inches of snow that fell one day two winter's ago. 

I remember the cashier at Whole Foods who told us we were living her dream and asked me to take her portrait. 

I remember driving from freezing rain in New York straight into blossoms, sunlight, and 20 degree weather in Ohio, all in one day. 

I remember the light on the Pacific Coast Highway and the way the long blades of grass danced with the wind at the base of vineyards in Napa. 

I remember sitting on a cliff blanketed in lupins that reminded me so much of my mother and feeling the pain of not being home with her as she is healing from an injury. 

I remember, and feel, the loneliness of the road and lack of community. But also the faces and welcoming smiles of strangers who have became dear and treasured friends. 

And of course there is more, so much more. I'm grateful for all this journey has meant and will mean in time. 

- S






sarah kierstead