Part 8: Sufficiency

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A drive from Oregon to Florida, to experience music and living across the USA, and ultimately join a jazz cruise. AKA, a listening practice, unfolding in real time—written on the road, in the spaces between cities and notes.

Day Fifteen

Fort Lauderdale (Pompano Beach), FL

Arriving in Fort Lauderdale—Pompano Beach, specifically—feels like a warm, unceremonious welcome. The suite looks out over the city, the canals, the skyline, and just far enough away to be quiet. High enough to feel removed. Close enough to feel connected.

Max and I are greeted by the friendliest staff—genuine, the kind of people who immediately kneel to say hello. They want to take him right out of my arms. For a moment, I think he might go with them without hesitation. Traitor.

My room isn't ready for another three hours, so instead of waiting, I decide to use the time wisely. Movement first. Max and I head out for a brisk walk. The sky is Florida gray—overcast but warm—the kind of light that mutes the edges of everything, turning the morning matte and low-glow. Nothing glaring. Nothing sharp. Just ease.

Somewhere along the way, I catch my reflection and notice my hair feels different—drier, broom-like, tired. Ocean air maybe. The water maybe. Travel maybe. Either way, it suddenly feels obvious: It's time.

I find a salon—Guys & Dolls—owned by a wonderful gay couple. Warm, welcoming, instantly familiar. My stylist, Paris, is a dream. Calm hands. Good eye. No fuss. I tell her to cut about five inches. Watching the length fall feels lighter than expected.

Sitting there in the chair, it hits me: Guys and Dolls. One of my favorite tunes comes from that musical. Miles Davis—"If I Were a Bell." The lyric floats back: "Ask me how do I feel... If I were a bell, I'd go ding dong ding dong ding." Exactly that. Like something inside ringing clean.

I don't believe those alignments are accidents anymore. Some things just line up when they're supposed to.

Afterward: a proper blowout. Clean. Polished. Cared for. It feels good to be pampered.

Max, meanwhile, being his magnetically magnificent self. The owner tells me their dog recently passed—sixteen and a half years. Same amount of life lived of my beloved English cocker, Maggie. Max's predecessor. He was born on the same day she left. One year earlier.

There's a quiet ache in the room, the kind that lingers without needing words. And somehow Max—ridiculous, affectionate, alive—lifts the whole space. For a moment, sadness and sweetness sit side by side. Nothing to fix. Nothing to perform. Just people being kind to each other.

Later, Paris gives me directions to her favorite beach entrance. The wind is strong and blustery, the ocean restless. We walk anyway. Sand. Salt air. Big sky. Max noses everything like it's brand new. Nothing spectacular. Nothing dramatic. Just being there. Which suddenly feels like everything.

That evening, I find a wonderful sushi bar and treat myself to a proper sit-down dinner alone. No rushing. No multitasking. Just a quiet table and good food.

When I roll back in, my room is ready. Hot shower. Tea. Lights low.

Tomorrow can be anything I want it to be. Nothing chasing me. Nothing pulling. Just enough. Sufficiency.

Miles ahead.

To Be Continued / See Chapter List At Top