The morning after I slept in my car behind the San Simeon State Park campground, I woke as dawn was beginning to break, used the campground porta-potty (if only I had known about it the previous night, when I peed outside in the dark, hoping that nobody would drive by at that moment), and headed out in search of a suitable place to have breakfast. I was barely on the PCH for five minutes before a beach parking lot greeted me. A perfect place for tea and oatmeal, with the rising sun and a lone seagull hoping for a meal as my only companions.

I finally had cell service strong enough to check out where I was. (Most of the previous day's drive involved my phone staring blankly at me whenever I attempted a phone call, text or to navigate on Google Maps). I could hardly believe it - I was just over an hour from Santa Maria, my destination for that evening. After the split second of regret for making it so far down the coast in one day, which I forced aside when remembering my no shoulds rule from yesterday, I decided that today would be perfect for spending time on the beach, and finding a spot to hike.

About 20 minutes down the highway, I saw two cars pulled over in a small, unmarked parking lot. I joined them as their occupants prepared their surfboards and climbed into their wetsuits. I walked over the dry, cracked earth to rocky bluffs at the ocean's edge. Climbing down, I sat on the beach in a cove surrounded by the bluffs, watching the waves rolled in.

I meditated and wrote in my journal, observing two cranes on a rock silhouetted against the ocean mist. One puffed out his chest and spread his wings, trying to attract a mate. Waves crashed onto the rocks, a peaceful white noise I wished I could bottle up and bring home with me. The sun was high by now, the temperature climbing. Another beautiful day - day nine with sunny skies as the backdrop to my vision quest. By the time I put my journal and pen away, many cranes were on the same rock, the hopeful bachelor having abandoned courtship in favor of companionship.

Back on the PCH, I stopped on a whim when I saw signs for Grover Beach, just past an RV campground where visitors were apparently invited to stay a while and make themselves at home. Clotheslines out front, flowerpots and lawn chairs in front of RVs that ran the American flag, it looked more like a retirement community than a campground. 

After brushing my teeth in a very unkempt bathroom, I strolled along the boardwalk that protected the succulents and beach flowers in the sand. A monarch butterfly fluttered past, and I thought of a dear friend, one who has lost many pregnancies herself, who says butterflies always make her think of her losses. I walked along the beach, collecting the few shells and stones that would fit in the palm of my hand. I took a selfie, squinting into the sun, knowing that my camera could never capture the feeling of contentment, the smell of sand and salt, the warmth of the sun on my face. 

I continued down the PCH. Driving in silence, as had become the norm, I observed the scenes I was passing by. A glimpse of home in the faded, hand-painted Gold Medal Flour sign on the side of a building in Guadalupe. A calf drinking from its mama's udder. The landscape getting drier. We move so fast in our day-to-day lives, we often miss the beauty in the simple moments around us. I saw the first cactus of the trip when I reached Santa Maria, where I drove into a residential neighborhood that a hiking website promised was the trailhead for a short hike at Orcutt Hill. I attempted to nap in my car, a challenge with the intense sun beating down. Finally I gave up, put together my daypack and headed onto the trail. 

This was definitely desert. Little shade, dry dusty earth, hardy drought-resistant plants. I went through my camelback in no time, though the hike was no longer than an hour. At the top of the hill, I was rewarded with a view of Santa Maria, which appeared to be a formulaic recipe of housing developments, strip malls and a community soccer field when children played with their parents likely cheering at the sidelines. 

On my way back down toward my car, I saw a flutter and caught my breath when I realized what it was - two more monarch butterflies. I watched them fly their graceful yet erratic paths and thought of the one I had seen earlier at Grover Beach, and my friend connecting butterflies with her losses - could this be an omen? I wondered if two represented my babies, and the third - perhaps this means I do in fact have a child in my future?

Then, a moment later I saw three more butterflies - these ones all in white, flying together with a delicate choreography. It brought tears to my eyes. At this moment, I was certain that I was seeing an omen, and needed only follow it. The white butterflies dipped and danced and fluttered around me, and as I watched, I felt as if I was understanding. This was a message of hope - telling me I will find peace, whatever that may look like. No matter what the future had in store for us, whether or not we would ever be parents, this all would be behind me someday, and I would find peace through it all. And on this journey, I was already partway there.

Not yet ready to end my exploration, I drove to the picturesque Tepusquet Road. Passing a series of vineyards, I noticed a man in a cowboy hat riding on horseback, a woman leading the horse by the reigns, with a little dog following closely behind the enormous creature. It's amazing what can be discovered simply by opening your eyes, free of distractions, and observing the world around you.

Tepusquet Road twisted and turned, passing farms and old gates with "Do Not Enter" signs, views around every turn as the road continued to climb above the city. Eventually I hit highway 166, which took me back to Santa Maria, where I finally called it a day and pulled into the gated community where my great aunt Mary lives. After a delightful evening talking about family history, meeting a cousin who last saw my mom in 1985, and enjoying a hot dinner, I laid in bed, exhausted, thinking of how far I had come already. The thousands of miles, multiple states, parks and vistas, visiting with friends and family. The sense of acceptance that I was beginning to feel. The butterflies I saw today - omens that I vowed to follow. My eyes and heart were open - I was ready for whatever came next.