Deliverance and the Lure

A story, a something special, and an announcement, all in the web of connection

Hello, all! Welcome, new subscribers. I’m over the moon you’re all here, that we’re all rolling together. Today, I have a triptych—a story, a something special, and an announcement I’ve been dying to tell you about.

Up first

The Story: “Deliverance and the Lure”

The guy a few rows ahead of me keeps looking back—gaze like a fly fishing lure, tossed back, dangling momentarily, tossed again, hopeful of the moment I’ll be caught by the tantalizing glint of an iris. But I noticed the Bible in his hands, earlier, when the bus stopped at a gas station, and we filed out to stretch our legs. So I avert my eyes.

It’s summer 2007. We’re somewhere between Charleston, West Virginia, and Baltimore, Maryland. And it’s my first real foray into solo nomading. The bulky bag next to me contains all I need—indefinitely: Hiking boots, clothes, and sleeping bag.  Strappy heels and little red dress. Film camera, thermos, and day pack. Laptop and writing pad. Three books, to be swapped out for others as needed. And strapped to the outside, a tent. Glancing at it gives me a thrill.

I’ll learn over years of bus and trains rides to come that it isn’t just the newness of watching the world float by in little scenes out the window—the world going about its living, unaware of my presence—that renders this viewpoint intimate, the moments when the light is just so and my own face is imposed over the scene poignant. Now I just feel a freedom I’ve been longing for settling into my bones, and I spend more time watching than jotting in the notepad on my lap.

It’s at least another stop later when it occurs to me I’m missing my own point. Don’t I want to engage? To learn more about this vast, tiny place we all share, by which I mean the planet, our hearts? I close my pad and smile at the guy with the Bible.

“Hot out there,” he says, nodding toward the window.

“Sure enough is,” I agree.

“Where you headed?” He wants to know.

“Here and there,” I say, both because it’s true and because it feels nice to say out loud.

He nods, closes his eyes, savoring. Draws out his words with reverence. “That’s where it’s at.”

I smile. “How about you?” I ask. “What’s waiting up the road?”

His eyes drop. “Whole lot.”

For the next hour, he tells me about the family he’s hoping to put back together, after time spent away. I don’t press, but it’s pretty clear he’s been locked up. I ask about the niece and nephews and mom he both can’t wait to see and fears disappointing. He’s changed, is, at once, more and less than he was when he last saw them. They, no doubt, have too. An old friend might have a job opportunity. 

I tell him I’m not sure where I’m headed or what I’ll find when I get there. But I’ve been looking for a long time. And this step feels right.

“I hear that,” he says.

The light outside has lavendered, and I say I’m going to get some sleep. A shawl and the rolled sleeping bag serve as bedding, my legs tucked up on the seat next to me. Trees silhouette dance in dusk.

 “The Big Man Upstairs put you in my path,” he says after a moment. He holds up the Bible. “It’s all thanks to him, you know, that I’m going home. And he’s gonna take care of me I think.”

“I’m really glad he’s with you, my friend,” I reply. And despite the fact I’ve been trying to escape God, or maybe just the religion of my youth, for a long time, I am, truly.

As we rest, the Greyhound rumbles slowly northward to deliver us.

If you’ve been rolling with this desk for awhile now, you may recognize the Greyhound & the man with the Bible from a longer version of the story I first told here back in August 2023.

The Something Special: A Gift of Voice

This is how it is with roaming.

You’re out there on the road, solo but not alone. No matter where you go, there they are—connections. This one fleeting but no less profound for its brevity. This one long-term. This one lifetime. Sometimes you wander into a grin you haven’t seen for months and smile back like it was yesterday. Sometimes you’re at an outpost so remote you miss it at first when someone says your name but turn when it’s followed by your van’s name and are shocked to see old friends. Sometimes a man with a large frame and a gentle voice offers you aid.

So many things pull two souls together. Eyes like mirrors: I’ve known that same pain. Heart songs that harmonize: That makes me giddy too! You’ve been where he longs to go; she’s walked the path you’re stumbling down; they know a thing or two about whatever you need to learn.

Life on the road is a cornucopia of kindness and welcome. Life on the road rounds corners where takers lurk. Last week’s piece, “Lucky,” speaks to this tension.

This is how it is with life. 

We’re out here, doing our thing, taking care of business, sometimes feeling profoundly alone. An ambulance pulls up across the street, and you go to the fence to see if you’re needed and meet another neighbor, who clasps your hand and prays for her and you and us all. Out on a walk, you find a basket brimming with avocados and grapefruit and a sign, “Free.” An unexpected conversation in a grocery story was just the pick-up you didn’t know you needed

We’re out here, being lucky. Taking risks. Meeting injury that blindsides. Running smack-dab into takers. Looking out for each other.

This is how it is with writing. 

You’re out there on the page, solo but not alone. You long to reel someone in with the glint of your words. You delve into the words of other writers. This one spin tales like reflections. This one you fall in love with and gobble everything they’ve ever written till the rhythm of their phrasing lives in your belly. This one got you through a rough patch, and you return to the work again and again.

You practice, filling page after page, your own voice growing stronger and clearer. You post or submit and hold your breath, waiting for a reader to put down what they’re doing, look up, and smile.

As we rest, the planet turns and rounds the sun to deliver us.

OK. I’ll get to the something special. It’s a meeting of all three, roaming, life, writing. My friend, colleague, fellow nomad, and a gifted reader, Marya Hornbacher, recorded a reading of “Lucky.” And wow, it brings the piece to life. I hope you’ll give it a listen.

And don’t miss the companion to her recording, “The Wandering Kind,” in which she describers those who wander in a way that makes me say, yep, exactly, and sigh, seen at last.

〰️

Marya’s writing is fantastic. She’s one of those writers whose works I’ve been gobbling up since I found her. In her stack, Going Solo at the End of the World, she “hits the road to cover the collapse of American life in real time”—which is to say, she shares brilliant insights, paints scenes and encounters that take you with her and deepen your understanding of the nuances and complexities and perspectives that inform the world we’re living in, and gives you prose like jazz music. I can’t recommend it enough.

The Announcement: A Caravan Is About to Roll Up!

When I first started experiencing debilitating symptoms that would eventually be diagnosed as an autoimmune disease in late 2023 , a series of events unfolded, including the abrupt loss of my largest and longest client as a freelance editor. I was all the things—sad, perplexed, angry, worried about the future. But also a whisper rose from my belly: It’s time for a change. Time to reach for something more.

So as I had with roaming, I trusted writing. I tossed my words out there via this rolling desk.

And what a return! Among them, you. The connections and friendships I’ve made here and the brilliant writers whose words I’ve found here fill my heart and belly.

What’s more, over the past many months, I’ve teamed up with three writers and teachers whose work I adore—along with Marya, poet, journalist, professor, outdoor enthusiast, and overall badass Matt Smythe and fiction writer, poet, master of all genres flash, chapbook whisperer, and drummer Paul Corman-Roberts.

Drum roll for the announcement: The four of us are thrilled to announce the arrival of an incredibly exciting new venture: Caravan Writers Collective.

The Caravan Crew, Marya, Holly, Matt, and Paul

Caravan offers a year-round curriculum of courses and workshops, events, and opportunities to work 1:1 with members of the Caravan Crew. We’re kicking it off in June with the Caravan Summer School, a three-month road trip through genres, subjects, matters of writing business and creative process, and more.

This project arises from our shared love of and experience with both writing and teaching, as well as our shared conviction that good writing has the power to change the world. 

Our work as a collective is rooted in the desire to provide high-quality courses, coaching, and events that explore the art, craft, and business of writing and self-editing in a collaborative, community-oriented way, and to make those things accessible, affordable, and enjoyable for you.

Tomorrow, as a subscriber to the Rolling Desk, you’ll receive an email from the Caravan Writers Collective. You are 100% able to unsubscribe if you’re not interested. No spamming here. ;) 

This is our lure, our glint, our light on the mycelial web of connections that binds us all.

Having hitched our writing wagons together, we have no plans to turn back.

And we want to write alongside you too. We do, truly.

---

Thank you, all, for rolling with me, for being the return that fills me up! Thank you for reading, commenting, and sharing!

For the comments, how do you feel about traveling by bus or train? When’s a time that you listened (or didn’t) to a voice from your gut? And were you glad you did (didn’t)?

---

Been thinking about taking out a paid subscription to the Rolling Desk? Appreciate the work it takes to create these posts?Wanna help keep this desk rolling? Now’s the perfect time!

Click on the spring image (or these words) for a 30% discount. Forever.

Never miss a post! Escape to gorgeous landscapes. Be each others’ fortunes. Contemplate disparate connections. Get lost in lyrical prose.