In 60 days, I’m turning 60. Between now and then, I’d thought I’d share some stories about how I’m crossing the threshold between one decade and the next.

Because that’s what we storytellers do: Share our stories. To help you see your stories.

My first thought was to share a sort of “greatest hits” of my favorite stories from the last 59 years. But that felt, I don’t know, like I was looking backwards. And threshold crossing is, very much, about moving forward.

So, what I’ve decided to do these next 60 days, is share a few stories about who I am as I stand on this threshold and how I’m crossing it.

And the first thing I want to share.

Is that I’m home.

There’s a story for that: It’s from this past May when I was on the back end of the road trip to scatter Gran’s cremains.
All I was doing was driving.
Driving the 179 miles from La Jolla, California to Yuma, Arizona.
Driving the ten days or so between entering California with Gran’s ashes.
And leaving without them.
Driving.
Wondering where I’d go next.
I’ve spent two-plus years on the road, in a way. Much of that has been in OKC, but that’s been split between a number of furnished short-term rentals. I literally haven’t had a home address since leaving Plano, Texas in April 2023.
While I have some furniture and art in a 10×10 storage unit, the rest of my belongings fit in the back of my Mazda CX-5.
I’ve been on the road, first to run from and, lately, to turn around and drive to the core of the very, very, very dysfunctional relationship I have with my family. Especially my mother.
Because my Gran and I were extremely close, her cremains brought me great comfort and steeled me with great resilience as I journeyed through this “dark night of my soul”, as Jung and others call it.
Scattering Gran’s cremains to California was my way of both bringing her home. And saying thank you.
I had told myself that, soon after my return, I’d find a real home.
And settle down.
But there’s something about driving along an increasingly barren Arizona highway that clears the dust of the stories you tell yourself.
Until you see what has been standing there, waiting for you to see it.
Which, in my case, was that what I had done these past two years.
Was drive myself.
Home.
To myself.
It doesn’t matter where I sleep tonight, where I wake up tomorrow.
It doesn’t matter what my next address is.
I’m home now. I couldn’t be more settled.
And I can’t wait to welcome my next decade in.

The Practice of Being Alive is a collection of stories about getting through this thing called life.