Perhaps I ought to change the name of the blog to 26 Beautiful Things. While it lacks a certain ring, it’s a more accurate depiction of what I’m capable of lately. Finding time to allow my fingers to type freely, without agenda, seems sparse. I know, I know … you make time for what you prioritize. And Instagram gets too much thumb action, rather than the clacking of keys on a keyboard. Instead of justifying a social media habit, I’ll allow my butt in seat, fingers on the keyboard, with my mind focused for just a few minutes on a lunch break to bring another musing to life.

Last week, while on vacation, I found my rhythms shifting again. To drive west, in late July or early August, is etched into my being. Each summer, my family would pack up the Subaru with bags and bikes and coolers filled with too much food for a week in the San Juan Mountains. Despite that tradition leaving when Dad did, I still want a mountain escape each year.

So, we packed up the truck with bags and coolers, and instead of bikes, strapped a stroller into the trunk. With a baby in the backseat, we rode to a different mountain town. The scenery was unfamiliar, as I hadn’t ventured to our destination before. As someone else drove, I could feel a wrongness in my bones. This isn’t where we usually go, my body seemed to be saying.

Of course, we ended up where we’d intended – it was me who had shifted. Our schedule was oriented around nap time, and while we attempted to enjoy cocktails at dinner, I found myself up and down, holding pinkies with a toddler as she said “hi” to everyone sitting around us. Vacation with a one year old looks different. The ice cream we got was at an old soda fountain on the corner of main street, not in the rusty old grocery story on the side of a dirt road.

At night, after putting baby to sleep in my bed, I’d lay next to her and watch her breathe. As the sun set, I’d stay put, with a white down comforter adding weight to my being. I listened as the fan oscillated back and forth, and often fell asleep before nine. Going to sleep in a cool, dark room is a beautiful thing.

In my resting came a level of acceptance I’m still growing into. Things change, this we know, and our routines and rhythms of childhood pulse within us. During the trip, my baby got to explore a different main street, experienced new parks, and dunked her diaper clad butt into the river, splashing as her Pamper’s dry-fit soaked up a significant amount of the Yampa. She doesn’t know the routine or the turns and winds of the road. It’s unclear if this mountain town will be her summer remembering; we’re just getting started. I’m the one who has grown up.

After our time was up, we cleaned up the Airbnb, placing the gold antlers back onto the coffee table. I sat in the back of the truck, and watched the scenery roll by, aching for my dad. The mountains have burned, the rivers are full, these new roads are unfamiliar. Even our wilderness has changed.

Who I get to travel with though, very beautiful. So, here’s to the journey, new bends in the road, and different things in the trunk. Each trip is a beautiful thing.