Back to my #roots

Pop is worried about me. He has been watching my video logs on YouTube, and he says I am getting too skinny. He thinks I should be eating more rich foods and drinking hot coffee in the morning. He suggested I take a library day to review my goals. He begs the question: How are my present personal sacrifices being leveraged for my future happiness?

My future father-in-law is totally sweet, and I appreciate the sentiment. We have lived very different lives, and I am sure it is difficult for him to imagine why I would be driving alone across the country, imposing mean conditions on myself, chasing a dream that is still largely undefined. You may be wondering the same.

As fate would have it, I am entering the American Plains, a region that holds my roots and many childhood memories. A goal review at this time, in this place, is perfect. We are nearing the end of the year’s first quarter, and I am thus about 25% into my project. Looking toward the future, I take time to remember where I came from – small town USA.

Cotton in the Park-1

Agriculture is the basis of Carnegie’s economy, the main production being cotton, wheat, broomcorn, cattle, hogs and poultry. Here, cotton is scattered about the park playgrounds.

My kin on my mother’s side moved to Arizona from Montana when mom was still a young girl, and the family lived modestly as grandpa continued farming and beekeeping. My kin on my father’s side lived in Kansas and rural Oklahoma, where my grandmother had a cellar and canned her own vegetables and preserves.

My earliest memories are walking my sandles through rusty-colored dirt, chasing the baby horned toads because the big ones scared me, staying in the old converted school bus on grandpa’s farm, making mud pies and a delicacy I called “piccolosherie” from old can tabs, pebbles and other items I could scavenge from about the neighborhood. Did you know that if you trap a grasshopper in your hands, it will spit on you?

Grandma's Home-1

My grandmother’s home in Carnegie, population >2,000.

I grew up an army brat, and my family moved frequently. When my father was stateside, we lived on the army bases. When he was abroad, we often lived with family. He would send pictures and postcards from his foreign duty stations. I was beguiled by the images of these iconic structures and exotic landscapes, and I wanted so badly to be there myself. I was jealous that my father got to visit all of these amazing places, while I was stuck at home, day after day, with the same old dirt and rubble and horned toads and spitting grasshoppers.

At least we got to move around when he was back stateside. Each new duty station brought a new adventure for me. I got to go snow tubing on the Rocky Mountains of Colorado. I got to tap my toes in real blue grass in Kentucky. One time our family actually got to accompany my father overseas. We lived in Germany for a year, and I thought it was the most magical experience imaginable. Though we lived on the base among the other American families, I attended a Host Nations class at school, where I got to learn practical German and practice what I learned on field trips, like going to the market and trying to buy tomatoes for the evening’s dinner salad. I was hooked.

Our military life ended when I was in fourth grade, and we settled back into Carnegie, Oklahoma. I thought it was utterly boring. I thought I would be stuck in that place for the rest of my life. I spent my summers at the park and the swimming pool, running around barefoot, sleeping outside under the stars, going to the pow-wows and rodeos, anything to bring the sparkle of life to my dull, brown world. I spent my winters devoted to school. We qualified for free breakfast and lunch, and I worked hard to earn good grades and ignore the fact that the other girls rode horses and wore leg warmers and I did not. I believed if I got smart enough, I could make the kind of life I really wanted for myself.


The rodeo and the pow-wow were the highlights of my summers in Carnegie.

I became obsessed with the spelling bee. I found out that the national competition was held in Washington, DC. If I could make it to nationals, I would get to go there. Words were now my very best friends, my ticket out of town. I took home the practice book, which was a thick pamphlet of stapled papers containing column after alphabetical column of words, words, words. I studied those columns of words all summer long, dreaming of climbing the stairs of the Washington Monument and sitting in the giant lap of Abraham Lincoln himself. That winter, I won my school bee and was runner-up the regional bee. I made it to the state competition in Oklahoma City, where I misspelled the word dishwasher. Well… I was never a very good one. 😉

A couple of years later, my family moved to northern Virginia, and my dream of DC became a reality after all.

It took several months of concentrated effort to remove the southern twang from my voice. Adapting myself to a changing environment was exciting, and I was relieved to distance myself from that dull, dirty existence I once knew. I was metropolitan now. I ate seafood and took a foreign language. I saw cherry blossoms on the Mall and masterpieces by Monet. I wore dangle earrings and saved my money for two months to buy a pair of white jeans and a t-shirt by the Colors of Benetton.

Such would be the motion of my life over the next thirty years.


Mural on Main Street in Carnegie.


Ironically, the pursuit of my dreams has led me back to my roots. Connecting with the land, sleeping under the stars, finding inspiration in the song of the whippoorwill… I missed the meaning in those simple messages long ago. I am learning to listen more carefully now, wearing messy hair and dirty feet once again. My southern twang is gleefully returning to me. Finding my message and my authentic voice is a journey whose time has come.

I don’t view my present circumstances as a sacrifice. I am living in my happiness. A simple life is not necessarily a mean one. I am discarding all of the distractions and discovering what is truly important to me, as the cotton gin separates the fibers from the seed. I am becoming ever more grateful for every small pleasure, like hot coffee and linen napkins and grasshoppers.

The grasshopper is both grounded and free, connected to the earth yet able to fly with the currents. With a single thrust of its strong hind legs, grasshopper takes flight with a leap of faith, not knowing exactly where it will land. I believe it is imperative for me to do the same. I may not know exactly where this leap of faith will take me, but I trust myself to ride the wind.


Facing #fear

Today’s post is in response to a question I received via Facebook messenger from Sunni in Spokane, WA. Sunni was kind enough to give me permission to use her question on my blog, so that my reply might benefit a larger audience. Thank you, Sunni!

Hi Sonya, Well, I just saw your firepit post, and hope you are staying cozy!!! So, I would actually like to take a long road trip, too, mainly to see some of my favorite places around the country, and friends & family along the way. I would probably write & post a journal or blog, too. Its just kind of a fuzzy idea right now, but at 64 years old, I am thinking about ways I can realize some of my still unmet dreams while I am still in good health and energetic. So, I have been wondering how you are financing your trip, and how you feel about driving and camping in remote places by yourself. I would hate to have a breakdown in the middle of nowhere. I used to take road trips around the NW and camp by myself. Not sure if I am feeling as brave anymore… Anyway, when you have a little time, I would love any insights you can share with me. No rush!! I’ll thank you in advance, and hope your trip continues to be the awesome adventure it seems to be!! Btw, now that you are in Branson, where is your next stop in MO? Anyway, happy travels!!! ❤ ❤ ❤. Sunni

First of all – you GO woman!! #girlpower It tickles my heart to hear my friend describe herself as being in good health and energetic, thinking about ways to realize some of her unmet dreams. Too often we speak poorly of ourselves and sell ourselves short. We should be proud of who we are, and we should believe in ourselves enough to reach for our goals. I applaud any woman who is strong enough to pursue her desires, whether it is a solo road trip, a new career challenge, a greater level of fitness, what have you.

I’m going to answer Sunni’s question in two parts, the first being how I feel about taking this kind of journey by myself. The second, how I am financing my trip, I will address in a second post soon.

How do I feel about driving and camping in remote places by myself?

This question proceeds from a place where fear dwells. So let me tell you how I feel about fear. Yes, I am dealing with fear issues during my journey. I am well aware of the dangers that attend this challenge. It is possible that I may face danger from an animal. It is possible that I may face danger from a human. It is possible that I may face danger from mechanical failure, accident, weather, etc. These are all things that could happen, and these are things that I cannot control. I refuse to let fear of these things rule over me.


Honestly, facing danger is just a part of living. I know a man who came face to face with a Florida panther in his quiet neighborhood, and he was just stepping out his front door for work that morning. Tornadoes tore through dozens of homes the Midwest a week ago, just a few miles from where I slept safely in my campsite under cover of the very same storm. Can we ever construct a life that is safe, or even safer, by making one set of choices over another? This is not to say that we are to behave in a way that is reckless or irresponsible, only that fear should not be the driving force behind our decisions.

There is a danger I give credence and deference to. I believe it to be a more clear and present danger than anything else that could happen. It is the danger of living a life below my ability because I was afraid of what might go wrong. This is what I fear most. It is the danger of regret. This is a danger I can control, and I summon all that is within me to do so.


I made a decision long ago that fear would not be my master. I acknowledge that I have fears, and some of them are based on legitimate dangers, but I don’t let those fears call the shots in my life. If ever a fear tries to bully me, I face that fear head on and put it in its place. For example, I had a debilitating fear of heights. So what did I do about it? I took up rock climbing. I pushed myself, shaking and trembling, higher and higher until I rang that bell. I do it over and over again. I ring that bell in the face of fear. I stand up to that bully until fear is the one cowering at my feet.

That is how I handle the fears that are being uncovered during this journey. I do not pretend that they are not real. I do not pretend that they do not represent a legitimate, possible danger. I am not reckless nor irresponsible. I simply face them, acknowledge them and receive information from them. I treat fear like a consultant and allow it to tell me what it feels I need to know. Fear informs my decisions, but it does not control them. I am the master of my own destiny.

Fear is powerful! Employ that power in your favor.


#Cemetery overnight

Yes, I slept in a cemetery last night. Technically, I was not actually IN the cemetery. I was camped well outside the fence. (That is why the ghosts could not get to me.) hahaha

I was driving into Missouri from Western Kentucky. I was completely unfamiliar with the area I was entering; just following my GPS to the free campsite. I came upon a sign pointed right> toward the recreation area, but my GPS pointed me straight ahead^ toward the camp. I obeyed my GPS. I reasoned to myself, “Maybe the paid camping is over there, and the free camping is over here.” It was totally plausible.

When the familiar female maps voice lilted, “You’ve arrived,” I crept to a stop, looked around and furrowed my brow. “Are you sure?” I responded. Number one, I was sitting in the middle of the dirt road I was following. Number two, I was in a cemetery. There were at least three distinct plot areas I could see from where I sat: one large, fenced-in plot stretching out on my left, and two open, smaller plots falling behind me. A small white church sat on the grounds as well. Where exactly have I arrived?

I scanned the area for any No Trespassing! signs. There were none. There was, however, a sign on the front of the little white church that read, “YE WHO TAKE SHELTER HERE REMEMBER THIS IS GOD’S HOUSE”. Well, they aren’t discouraging visitors, I thought.

Bucktown Cemetary-1

I contemplated what to do next. I figured that the actual campsite must be further down the way. I continued following the dirt road until it dead-ended (pardon the pun) just above Lake Ouachita in a wide, pebbled, circular clearing that looked like any other secluded campsite I had visited in my travels. There was even the charred remnants of a campfire. The lake flung itself out gracefully from east to west, and the sun was beginning its decent. A few careful steps down the dirt and rock and embankment, and I would be standing on the beach. It seemed a very fine campsite indeed, save for the cemetery.

I have become accustomed to cemeteries, especially in my travels. I have toured and photographed a number of grave sites recently. I didn’t feel a sense of creepiness at all. On the contrary, I have developed a deep reverence for these grounds, the love and memories they hold, and the holy voids they contain.

I decided to stay. I really liked the place. The birds were singing and the squirrels were playing. The water was gently lapping the shore below. The sky was being painted by the setting sun. It was peaceful and serene, and I was sure to have it all to myself. This was a gift.

Lake Ouachita-1

The evening progressed steadily and surely toward dusk. I took some photographs, just for fun. I fed Justice and then myself. There was no internet here, but I had cell service, and I enjoyed my usual evening chat with my fiance. After, it was silent.

As the dark of night settled over us, the first uneasy stirrings began. My mind got edgy and disturbed. I kept feeling the urge to look over my shoulder, back toward the cemetery. I told myself I was being silly. But my mind kept trying to project images from that movie, The Sixth Sense. I see dead people. It reminded me how the ghosts wanted to interact with the living boy. They wanted something from him. I shuddered. Then I gently but firmly pushed the images out of my mind. I refused to entertain them, no matter how my psyche complained.

Suddenly my mind gripped me and insisted I turn the car around to face the exit, right now do it now, just in case we needed to make a quick getaway. I actually laughed out loud at this suggestion. Oh how the mind can play games with you, if you let it. I took a deep breath. I declined. I wanted the car facing east, so I could watch the sunrise in the morning.

All night long, my mind tried to get me quaking with thoughts and feelings related to the cemetery nearby. Over and over I pushed them gently and firmly aside. I remember being plagued by many such nights as a little girl, when I cowered under the covers, eyes wide, fearing the monster under my bed or the demon in my closet. Only I am older and stronger now. Fear is not my master. Should something extra-sensory actually occur, I trusted myself to know what to do in that moment. Worry is not a welcome bedfellow. This I have learned with great gratitude.

Bucktown Cemetary-2

In the morning, I decided to explore and honor the cemetery and the church before moving on. I found out these grounds are all that remain of the original location of the town of Buckville. The residents once built their lives in the area now covered by Lake Ouachita. The church itself had been moved from the valley floor in 1951 to prevent it from being covered by water. It is now listed on the registry of historic places.

I had spent the night on hallowed grounds. I had wrestled with my fear. Now I was walking away with my blessing. You can do the same. It doesn’t take a cemetery to confront the fears in your mind. Grace and peace belong to any who do likewise.


The little voice in my head woke me up this morning. “C’mon! C’mon! C’mon! The sun is going to come up – right over there! Right over the lake!”

How did the little voice know where the sun was going to come up? And how is she so full of energy?

Groggy, I don’t even bother to open my eyes. I replied to the little voice in my head, “That would be very lovely to see, if the sun were coming up over the lake… and if I could move.” It had been a rough night. Edward and I had words. I went to sleep late. It rained all night. The pelting rain fell loudly on my car top, and I tossed and turned fitfully beneath it.

“C’mon! C’mon!” The little voice was so insistent. She reminded me that the boat ramp was right off the water, and that I could pull the car right up to it. The words just tumbled out of her, “We could watch the sunrise from the car, and you wouldn’t even have to be cold!”

How did she know all of this?!? I am still sleep-disoriented, and I can barely remember where exactly we made camp last night.


Photographing a beautiful sunrise from my vehicle, sipping camp coffee with the heat blowing… it did sound lovely. Much more lovely than the two previous sunrise shoots, where my hands went numb and my teeth went chattering. The little voice obviously was not going to let me go back to sleep anyway.

“Okay, okay. I’m moving.” I actually spoke this out loud – to the little voice in my head. I start working my way through my morning routine. I stuff my pillow into the feet of my sleeping bag. I put Justice on her leash and let her outside.

“Hurry up! Hurry up!” she squeals. “We are going to miss it!”

I look around me while I wait for Justice to do her business. The dark is giving way to the light. I am starting to make out the shape of the trees, the picnic table, the fire pit. I agree, the sun will be coming up very soon. I decide I can brew my coffee from the boat ramp, just in case the little voice is right.

I warm up the car and return the driver’s seat to the drive position. My slipper nudges the gas pedal, and we move forward onto the dirt embankment, then up onto the gravel road. It’s less than a mile to the clearing I found at the end of this road yesterday, and the boat ramp is at the far end of that.

I survey the lake and the tree line and choose what I hope will be a good vantage point, maneuvering the car to point due east with room for me to jump in and out for photographs.

I light up my camp stove and wait for the water to boil. It’s a nippy 45 degrees, and a cup of hot coffee will do as much as the sun to brighten my day.

Meanwhile, the little girl inside me is practically bouncing with anticipation.

Sure enough, the clouds begin to tinge pink just over the treeline, and the water below picks up a pink hue as well. I smile in spite of myself. This is lovely indeed. The sun inched her way up, serene and subtle, winking through the clouds at the little girl inside me.

I am sipping my rocket-brewed coffee at Cordell Hull Lake, somewhere between Nashville and Knoxville. There is not another soul in sight. The birds are singing, and I can distinguish at least three different calls. They are each saying, “Good Morning!” in their own tongue.

I am now delighted that the little voice woke me up with such insistence. I wouldn’t have wanted to miss this. What a glorious scene, and I am the only actor in it. Save for the sun. Oh and Justice. Oh and the birds. And the trees and the lake. Okay, we are a symphony, each playing our own special part. I feel so fortunate and grateful to be here. Yesterday has passed. Today has dawned anew.

The *softer* side of New Orleans?

I came to New Orleans thinking this would be a fun place to log the Louisiana leg of our #1000Miles1Year challenge. I first visited New Orleans when I was in my 20’s, a young professional attending a convention with a few dozen colleagues over Halloween. I remembered the city as being sultry, electric, and pulsing with daring enthusiasm.

Twenty years later, now a solo female traveler with a pup in tow, I felt uneasy as I entered the city. New Orleans has a reputation for debauchery; as though the dark and the dirty make their home here. Where will I run? Will it be safe? What if it isn’t? What was I thinking???


New Orleans can be seriously intimidating to a first-time visitor. The French Quarter streets feel incredibly narrow as you creep along in thick traffic. The sky above is squeezed between second-level balconies protruding from many of the buildings. Cars are parallel parked, mish-mash style along the street-sides, sometimes impossible for two vehicles to pass each other in between. Crowds of revelers roam the iron jungle with plastic frothing cups. A shop front displays Mardi Gras masks with creepy pointed noses and a sign that winks “Deurty Boys.” You get the sense that everything existing here is intent on invading your space.

I almost drive right back out. The little voice in my head was screaming, “Absolutely nothing in me wants to be here right now!” But I knew that was really just fear trying to take the wheel, and the something that kept me was the mantra that *fear is not my master*. I was intent on pushing beyond my discomfort and taking in the sights and sounds of this city.

A little sleuthing eventually uncovered a hidden gem called the Bywater District.


I wouldn’t exactly call it soft, but The Big Easy has a more sophisticated side. Just beyond the French Quarter is the Bywater District. I first discovered Crescent Park, a 1.4 mile manicured masterpiece that hugs the mighty Mississippi River. With ample free parking and gates open at sunrise, Justice and I safely logged in our miles here every day. The park is popular with runners and dog walkers, but never really crowded at any hour of the day. There are water fountains, port-o-lets and a fenced dog run too. We stretched out our runs just east of the park to the Poland Street Port, where massive ships dwarf the dock as they gently come to rest.


The neighborhood streets have names like Piety, Louisa, Dauphine and Desire, a bold and soulful stroll with houses dressed in royal blue, pastel pink, lime green, purple punch and every other imagining. White lights and gold beads and red tinsel adorn the otherwise staunch, ornamental wrought iron fences, balconies and doorposts. A sign reads, “No Air BnB! Save our neighborhood.” The locals voice concern that their treasured, quiescent lifestyle will be impugned by the more typical NOLA party animals. There are a couple of Bed and Breakfast Inns that welcome guests to the Bywater District, and they exhibit a debonair grace and sophistication. The Maison de Macarty is an 1860s Victorian home, listed on the National Register of Historic Places. It features six guest rooms in the main house, two private cottages, ensuite bath facilities and a mineral water swimming pool.


The Bywater District also has its own share of amazing eateries with convenient, meter-free street parking. The Satsuma Café is a great place to start the day, featuring fresh juices, breakfast and lunch dishes using local and organic ingredients. On the patio, a decorated seamstress bust stands next to a guest in a top hat, the sight of it just quirky enough to satisfy your appetite for the unusual. A few blocks down, The Joint offers true wood-smoked meat, landing it on top ten BBQ lists in publications from Bon Appétit to Zagat. In 2008, The Joint was featured on Guy Fieri’s “Diners, Drive-ins, and Dives” and folks still line up to dig in, with middle-aged professionals in button down oxfords seated at the bar next to free spirits sporting dreadlocks and nose piercings. Next to the shabby Bargain Mart is the classy Oxalis, a whiskey-focused gastropub where you can enjoy Happy Hour specials on small plates and drinks like the Sazerac, a local New Orleans variation of a cognac cocktail in a glass spritzed with absinthe.

I was delighted to spend three days exploring the heart of New Orleans without the debaucherous crowds and tawdry commercialism. Pets are welcome at all of the establishments mentioned above. As day three drew to a close, I concluded my visit at Piety Wharf. With iron pillars and concrete benches, Piety Wharf inspires with inscriptions that evoke the true spirit of New Orleans, like “Freedom: To move at will, to strive with confidence, to dream with a real expectation of achievement, and to be regarded with respect.”


Lesson learned from making #fire

I’m getting really fired up with ideas for this project. I would never have come this far had it not been for what I learned making fire during my first solo camp at Douglas Falls.


First things first, I need to pick up a few supplies, like a more suitable tent for sleeping out in warmer weather and a headlamp for pre-dawn hikes to watch the glory of a sunrise. I need a hand-held audio recorder for the interviews I intend to do, and a couple of devices to improve the quality of my videos. My laptop and cell phone are dated, and that slows my progress on producing and uploading my work. Time is always of the essence when you are on the road.

The problem is all of these things cost money. I had three months of savings left after my walkabout. That was before I purchased my new camera two weeks ago. I also had to replace the brakes in my car before I left North Carolina. That depleted an entire month of my travel expenses, with a list of additional investments that would be wise to make. It’s enough to make my head spin and my stomach churn.

My instinct has always been to conserve my resources and only spend frugally when necessary.

Growing up poor
Fear has controlled the spending of my money for the better part of my life. Growing up poor, I knew what it was like to not have enough and how that makes you feel different from the people that have plenty. I longed for beautiful things I could not have, and I clung to the few precious little things I did own. Like the charming stationary I got for my tenth birthday, with the pretty yellow flowers and the pastel orange butterflies. I only wrote one letter on that stationary, and it was to my grandmother to thank her for her special gift. I thought it oh so lovely, and if I used it all up I would not have it anymore.

This mindset followed me into adulthood. I did not become a hoarder of things; I became a hoarder of money. I could not spend it, afraid that if something happened I would not have enough. I did not allow myself to indulge in beautiful things very often. I shopped in thrift stores to try to satisfy my urges at bargain prices. I clipped coupons and haggled over expiration dates. I scoured the clearance racks and markdown isles. People have all kinds of derogatory terms for what I did, but I thought it very wise.

In my tenuous financial situation, my gut instinct would normally be to conserve my resources, to buy myself as much time as possible. I would not have purchased that camera. I would not have decided to embark on another road trip. I would have counted my pennies until I had another reliable income established.

But making fire taught me something.



What I learned from making fire
We had a fire pit at the winery in Walla Walla and at the tasting room in Woodinville. I loved to spend the evenings in front of the fire. I had seen others make fire plenty of times, and it never struck me as all that difficult.

August found me on my first solo camp. I was in crisis, and I had come here to clear my head. It was late summer, very warm still, and making fire was not something I had really thought about. However, when I discovered stacks of wood and newspapers at my campsite, I was tickled and decided it would be a nice thing to have. I purchased a barbecue lighter from the grocery market in the closest town the next morning, along with a can of soup and some brown mushrooms I thought I would cook.

I surveyed my materials. I wasn’t sure how long I would be staying, so I wanted to use them sparingly. I wadded a little newspaper into the center of the ring, piled on a few small twigs and three small logs to get me started. I babied that little fire. I scooped pine needles and twigs from around the camp and lobbed them in to coax it along. I had to keep adding this kindling and poking around the fire every several minutes, but it kept me occupied and I enjoyed the mysterious action of the flames.

One afternoon, as I walked past the DAY USE ONLY area near the river, I saw a young family preparing to picnic. The children were dancing around and splashing in the water. A dog was running between the children and a woman I figured was mom, and she was busy dressing the table. Dad was sitting in his camp chair having a drink. The fire before him in his ring was RAGING. Oh my stars! How did he do that?!? He was just sitting there, enjoying himself. And the fire burned on.

I wanted to make fire like that!

That night I puzzled over my options. Instead of a little newspaper, I used A LOT. Instead of a little kindling, I used A LOT. I piled a teepee of wood over the top and lit the whole thing in several places. As the fire began, I fed it rapidly with MORE and MORE quick burning materials. I was anything but conservative. The flame grew hotter and higher as the large logs ate it all up. I added more logs and more kindling, stacking everything up and up, carefully, allowing plenty of air flow. BOOYAH! My very own raging fire. I felt proud and accomplished.


The lesson learned
I sat for a long while and watched this masterpiece I had created.  I ruminated over what I had learned. I had been so concerned about saving my resources – the logs, the newspaper, the kindling wood. I was able to make a fire, but it was a lot of work, and it didn’t actually provide much heat or light. To make a raging, useful fire, I needed to subdue my instinct to conserve and give it all I had.

I thought about all of the times in my life when I gimped along with very little, unwilling to spend my resources, in fear of what might happen if I did. Was I really helping or hurting myself in the process? I came to realize that there is wisdom in both. There is a time to conserve and a time to spend, a time to lay up your treasure and a time to put it to good and proper use. There is also great wisdom in knowing which to choose. Sometimes, if you really want to grow a thing – like a fire, like an opportunity – you have to give it all you’ve got.

The universe taught me a valuable lesson that day. I needed to learn this lesson to make the most of my current situation. I could conserve my resources and gimp along for another couple of months. Maybe some of my work would sell. Or, I could believe in myself, give it all I’ve got, stoke that fire, and go for broke. Both are risky. Which risk was right for this moment?

Only time will tell. But I am choosing to give it all I’ve got. I believe when you set forth your intentions, with power and passion, that synchronicity meets you, and remarkable things start to happen. Fear diminishes while faith enlarges. My mantra: No fear, I am full of faith.

Atlanta #cityscape from Piedmont Park

My friend, James Loving turned me on to city runs when I stayed with him and his wife, Pamela a week ago. The hook: the run from his house in Richmond to the Virginia State Capital was a six mile round trip, and he claimed the route was rated one of the prettiest streets in America.

I thought I would hate it. Let me clarify. I thought I would hate the distractions but maybe enjoy the scenery. I have to get into *the zone* when I am running, otherwise it is just all guts and no glory. All I could think about was all of those people and crosswalks and traffic. I pictured myself having to yank Justice out of the headlights, maneuvering around the suits hogging the sidewalk, and having to stop dead at every red intersection.

There was nothing at all in those imaginations that appealed to me. But having never done a city run before, I was intrigued. State capitals are usually designed to impress the dignitaries and tourists alike, and there is so much history alive in Richmond. With a name like Monument Avenue… how could I NOT run it? So what if it was distressing! It would be a unique experience.

I LOVED IT. And Justice was great!

The people and vehicles were actually quite courteous. I think it helps to have a cute pup in tow. Justice garners attention and adoration everywhere she goes. I’m just along for the ride, really.

I decided I MUST include city runs in my #1000Miles1Year challenge (run/walk/crawl via Coming to Georgia in week four of my project, Atlanta was my number one pick. My fiance, Edward and I used to rendezvous there from time to time when he lived in Virgina and I in Florida. Some of our favorite memories are in that city.

Still, I was chicken to take to the streets alone. I Googled “safe places to run in Atlanta” and Piedmont Park topped the list. I chided myself for not having the guts to run the streets, but I chided gently, as I am a recovering perfectionist. “This is not exactly a city run,” I told myself as I sat cross-legged on the floor and scrolled through the Google hits. But the reviews touted beautiful scenes of the cityscape, a lake, sculptures and other objects of interest. I decided it was a good compromise. The address *was* in the city after all.

The trail maps showed three distinct loops – the active loop, the lake loop and the meadow – together totaling 2.5 miles. I figured we could run it twice. Or, if it was really pretty, we could run it once, collect the camera, and walk it a second time to play with some photos.

Turns out dogs are not permitted on the active loop, which is like a dirt track oval. I had to get creative to reach even 2.3 miles on our run. But it was indeed beautiful, and I could hardly wait to get my hands on my new camera.

Justice and I did another two miles walking, taking in the sights and having fun with digital film. It was a gorgeous day. It was everything I hoped for. I even got sun-kissed.