Day 16 | Homeless in Hawaii
I suppose you could say that we are plane dwellers. A series of turns, straights, and honks land us at the familiar chaos again. When were were fourteen, we started our lists of things we wanted to do. We scribbled for hours at kitchen tables and two mile notes. We chattered on our bike rides about our twenties and plotted adventures on maps.
We already lived in a storybook town, so we were born longing for adventure. We used to have our definition all wrong: passport stamps and photos, but over the years, we have been learning that it is not the places we go but the stories in between.
This brings us to two thousand and sixteen, a twenty-three and a twenty-two giggling as if they were fourteen again listing at kitchen tables.
The first and third collide, and there is this: we have fly to Hawaii, awaiting a story, one that God wrote before our prayers He answered. We have grown fond of our storybook because it it we find stories... stories that take time and mold it into a sunset on the peak of Blackwell Hill. We do not live our own stories but seek the hidden mystery of the path paved before a sunrise was a thought, before the sun began to fade, and before a light came to be.