Alone But Not Lonely

This was written by my sister Heidi, who had a wild, creative spirit and though she is gone, she is never forgotten. She lives on through her writing and her children, and her presence is felt as a ministering angel when we need help.

Alone Not Lonely

I hadn’t planned on watching the sunset over Arches National Park when I woke up that morning. The late sun on those red rocks makes them almost glow, and as the sank deeper, the dusty green of the sagebrush deepened until it became nearly blue. And the smell! It rained that afternoon, and there is nothing like the smell of the desert after a rain. It’s a heavy , musky almost minty smell that burns cool when you breathe it in. It’s as if the desert is so grateful for the rain that she offers up that rich earthy smell as her thanks.

As I rested on the red sandstone, still warm from the evening sun, I began thinking about my fear of being alone. Somehow I had mixed up the ideas of “lonely” and “alone.” I thought that being “alone” meant that no one wanted to be with me. It had never occurred to me that might mean I didn’t want to be with anyone.

I had left my sister’s house in Tuscon at four o’clock that morning to make the thirteen hour drive home to Northern Utah. I wasn’t looking forward making the trip all alone but I was certainly looking forward to getting back to my friends.

I did all the calculations. I figured out how long the drive would take at three different speeds, I planned exactly where and for how long I would stop, I even planned how many gallons of gas I would buy. Everyone in my family was worried about me driving so far alone. My dad called with instructions about what to do if the car should break down. My mom called and told me not to stop along the road for anything (there are a lot of weirdos out there, Heidi”) to stop only at busy restaurants, to lock the whenever I got out and, of course, to never talk to strangers. My two sisters in Washington D.C. even called to offer advice and concern. I was so wrapped up in the logistics of the trip I didn’t even realize (and probably wouldn’t have cared) that I would be traveling through a national forest, a national monument and a national park.

My first scheduled stop was at a Circle K store four blocks from my sister’s house. The half cup of coffee in the bottom of the pot was cold and stale. I had to wait six unscheduled minutes for the grouchy clerk to make a fresh pot. My irritation must have been obvious because he pushed me out the door without letting me pay.

Speeding alone the freeway, I put in my most familiar cassette tapes to keep me company, They reminded me of home and of the friends I’d soon be with again. I was so consumed with my thoughts of home that I didn’t notice anything around me for what must have been 250 miles. A siren and flashing lights brought me back to reality, and with a few profanities about the highway patrol I pulled to the side of the road desperately trying to think of some excuse to give for speeding. To my surprise, the officer whizzed right past me, tail lights flashing. I had to laugh at myself and wondered what my dad would say.

As I pulled back onto the freeway I was astonished at what I saw. I wasn’t in the desert anymore. I was in a pine forest. There were meadows and flowers along the road. The sky was deepening from powder to cobalt and the early sun was dancing on the trees. Everything looked fresh and beautiful and alive. I unrolled my window and the crisp cool air swept away the smell of stale coffee, cleared my head and opened my eyes.

Forgotten were the rapist lurching along in their dark cars; forgotten were the flat tires, dirty old men in greasy cafes, dead batteries and exploding radiators.

Instead I saw a mule deer eyeing me from a grove of pines. A few miles later an old Navajo with bobbled hair stared and scowled at me from the back of a rusty pick-up.

Something in me had awakened and all the advice and schedules I had been relying on to get me home safe and untouched were forgotten. No, not forgotten, hurled out the window as I raced beyond them.

The rest of my trip I stopped at every view area, talked to every stranger and broke every rule.

I traded my walkman for a silver and turquoise necklace at an old trading post.

I played opera full blast and listened to wild, uninhibited music from the sixties which I inherited from my oldest sister but had never understood before.

When I crossed the Arizona-Utah border I got out of my car and kissed the red sand just for the hell of it.

At Monument Valley I was overwhelmed. The majesty of those towering cliffs against the sapphire sky took my breath away. I spend an hour or two driving and hiking around the monuments. When I sat down to eat the sandwich I had packed, giant red ants crawled across my bare feel. And I let them.

Speeding over the curves and hills my mind raced and I thought thoughts never thought before. I made great plans for the future and all my problems solved themselves.

When I cam to the small town where my mother was born I parked the car and walked through it. I took pictures of the beautiful old house where my mother grew up with her cousins and sisters. I talked to a man at a gas station who turned out to be my mom’s grade school sweetheart. He said I looked just like her and I was so proud.

My parents had told me to stay the night with cousins in the town where my dad was born, but I drove right through without even stopping.

I stared down a mean looking dog in front of a café and drove with one foot out of the window (I had always wanted to do that).

I sang “I can’t get No Satisfaction” at the top of my lungs—even when cars passed. I let the wind mess up my hair. I even ran the air conditioner with the windows open!

And then I detoured through Arches to watch the sunset. I sat on that wonderful, warm, red rock watching and wondering.

This day had been the most thrilling, exhilarating, unfettered, invigorating day of my life.

It wasn’t entirely because of the wonderful things I had seen because of course I’d driven past them all many times before. It wasn’t because I had listened to great music or because my car hadn’t broken down. It was because I had been alone.

I was under no obligation to anyone to get somewhere by a certain time, to play music they like or make meaningless, superficial small talk. I was free to do exactly as I pleased; to follow every whim. And because I didn’t have to give my attention to another person, I was free to notice things like deer and ants and sunsets. I had been alone for sixteen hours and I wasn’t lonely. When the sun set I had the urge to sleep on the bank of the Colorado River. And, I did.