It’s been awhile since I’ve trekked across the desert from Southern California to Phoenix, and I’d forgotten about the magic that is the road trip.

I’m not sure what it is about being locked in a car that makes everyone a little sillier and a little more open to the possibile. Perhaps it’s the impracticalness of hiding in such a small space. Or maybe it’s the history of our road trips across the country to find and establish new places to live. (If only all the road trips had endeavored to learn about the people already living where we went instead of what happened.) or maybe it’s just that absolutely anything can happen on the road.

It makes me think of Emily Dickinson. Especially on the road I dwell in possibility.