Many roads fill my conscious and unconscious space.

Some are grand, others technical and congested. Still others are simple segments of that endless black ribbon of entrance and exit ramps punctuated by standard DOT overpasses that unites this land.

None is more natural or grounding than a dusty dirt road weaving through tall pines toward a patch of land I call home.

Back in the day before seat-belt laws, when seat-belt kits were sold as voluntarily upgrades, my big sister and I rode in the very back of our parents blue Chevy station wagon or the way back of our green Pinto toward it, our home base in the real-life game of tag.

Clouds of dust stirred by four worn tires bellowed in plump clouds that arose and swirled only to settle on the back window of our working-class chariot. Deep shifting rivers of Carolina dirt ran down the glass pane as the dust piled up and gravity took charge.

We laughed with glee as the dusty river ran freely down the car window, leaving behind our childhood woes as we headed toward our grandmother’s modest farm. There was anticipation of what awaited – the smell of fried chicken, a warm welcome, a place to be without the pretense and acting that suffocated our school lives.

We all have these places, our down-on-earth docking stations. While some are literal, others are figurative or only in our memories. The thing I have learned over the decades is the home bases that are most lasting are those we carry inside.

It’s seductive to chase dreams and norms.

As teenagers, my sister and I begged for the clothes our more wealthy friends wore. We fought over shared Chinos and babysat extra to earn precious coins to add to our clothing funds. Weejuns or penny loafers were the correct shoes. Purses were strictly Pappagallo. Oxford shirts and the appropriate hem roll of the pants made for our social success.

What life teaches, often through pain and loss, is that the trappings of the external world are just that, snares we succumb to over and over as we attempt to define ourselves and make lasting meaning.

When what we think matters is stripped away, we are left with only what’s real, ourselves, our imperfect bodies and mixed-up thoughts that coexist with undeserved inner divinity. Like my childhood travels over the river and through the woods to my grandmother’s humble home, it all comes down to basic substance, the earth from which we arose and which we travel, step by step, to return home.

It’s January 1 in a brand-new year.

I struggled for two days to remember my New-Year’s Facebook posts of years past. What is it I always say? People like it – maybe I’ll dig it up. Too lazy to scroll through the two dozen posts that constitute my not-so-exciting year to get back to January 1, I decided instead to rewrite the story.

Eschew resolutions. No. I’m not even sure I know what that means. Who am I trying to impress? Go with alliteration: resist resolutions.

Follow your path. That’s easy.

And my favorite starting, ending and in-between point: start where you are. Yes, that’s definitely the right ending.

Here’s how it looks on Facebook:

resist resolutions ~ follow your path ~ start where you are

It was only in seeing it posted like this that I realized this is in fact the same New-Year’s Facebook post I have used for several years.

It’s a sign of spiritual maturity, my grounded-ness in a true home, that I come back to the same words, even when starting from a blank slate. It’s a reflection of a real home of lasting substance I have found inside after nearly five decades of searching.

My hope for the year is to continue to travel my unique path toward my unique purpose.

For me this means using the gift of words, which I did not one thing to earn, to connect people and offer new ways of seeing things. To be given this ability says not one thing about me as a person; it isn’t of or about me. I’m meant to use it to bring union and resolution. For me this is about service and love, and I’ll keep doing it. I am just the messenger, after all.

That’s my path – at least at this point in time.

Yours is different and uniquely beautiful, anointed at a time and place beyond human understanding.

I hope to see you down the dirt road as we journey home. Perhaps we’ll meet at the one-lane bridge at Northeast Creek or share a ride in the very back of a now vintage blue Chevy wagon as rivers of primal dust roll down the back window and rise again in clouds of glory.

It’s a brand-new year. Make the most of it.

This is my intent, though I will surely at times fail. That’s what defines the human experience – going off the rails now and again and then bravely trying once more.

What matters most is what we do next, the very next step. It’s easy to go too far down the road in our heads with anxiety or to reach back to the past with anger or regret. I remind myself continually to remain in this miraculous moment right now. I find the more I try, the more natural it becomes.

My wish for you this year is the same as you move stepwise toward your true home.

When in doubt, start where you are.

Safe travels. See you there.

© Mitzi Viola, 1/1/15