Climbing

I couldn't write a single word tonight until I prepared my space.  The previous attempts were deleted because of their tone, direction, or forcefulness.  The lines didn't make it more than a few seconds.  I got up, cleared the desk, drew the blinds, lit a candle on top of a shitty book which inspires me to write better than that, and propped up the picture of the puppy who always reminded me to get out there and live.  The music was fine, nothing familiar to evoke a memory.  Something neutral. Not too slow, not too upbeat.

My writing space at this house has been forced.  Maybe it was also the cause of my writing hiatus this year.  I had hope for this room, an office, but it became a catch-all for bills, loose papers, extra furniture, and unpacked boxes.  The desk is preoccupied with K's graduate program requirements.  I find the surface and stack books onto another pile.  The walls around me are cluttered, but the view in front of me is in order now.  This will have to do for just a few more weeks.

I've written about my restlessness the last few months, stemmed from a feeling we are missing something.  Many would fill this void with a drastic change, a major life event or breakdown, but I also felt very comfortable with my external choices.   So I confronted it, analyzed it, decided to let it win for awhile, wrote about it, and then let it go.  And of course, the best things happen when you decide to do the latter.

We've been searching for a home the last year.  At first we were just unprepared.  And then we just had a terrible lender who made the process unbearable.  We made an offer on a house and were thisclose, but about two hours late after a previous offer.  The market over here cannot compare to the horrors experienced in King County, I will say that.  Our problem was simply higher than ourselves:  we were not finding a home because our home was not available yet.  K and I both vowed to take a break, uninstall the app from our phones, and not even mention 3 bedrooms, 2 baths until late fall.

As cliche as it is, and man is it cliche, things will find you--whether it be love or success, when you let them come to you.  Stop looking.  You're on the path, but haven't walked far enough yet.  Our home came on the market late August with  a very motivated seller and we will close in a few weeks.  It has all we had on the checklist--wood fireplace, quiet neighborhood, safe streets, bonus room for sleep overs, and enough space to grow.

 My restlessness in trying understand where to go next has been replaced with absolute disbelief.  I cannot believe we will get to live there.  Not just occupy a space and sleep under it's roof, but really live.  Joys and heartaches, births and deaths, the mundane and the extraordinary will take place on that ground.  I will watch trees grow and know their branches like the back of my hand.  I will sow asparagus and lilacs.  I will experiences many snowy winters and lay in the grass at the end of hot summer days.  It may be the home we share until we no longer share a home in the physical world.

We moved here/back nearly 4 years ago but adopted a bit of a drifter lifestyle.  First with my parents, then at the home on the island, and now here in this place which just is what it is.  Not us, never us, a cluttered space.  I look at the walls and recognize our belongings but think they're out of place.  But now, we will plant roots.  We will dig them in deep right away.  K will have a home in a life when homes were not always guaranteed.  We will have people around us to connect our roots to, watch babes grow up, and extend our community with.  Soon, very soon but not soon enough, we will turn a key and welcome each other home.

This whole time, as the summer harvest bloomed and stretched to the sky, we were climbing.  Transition is an after thought, not often realized.  In the midst of living, boom!  Just like that, everything can change.


The next time I write, I will have a different view.  Though, I may sneak in a quick post like I did on the eve of everything changing last time.  Or the time before.  I haven't daydreamed about my kitchen or bedroom like I have that bonus room.  Near the door, our bookshelves will stand, filled with the memories from our years together and apart.  The extra TV and my parent's futon will sit parallel to each other, for those days when someone needs to get away.  But from the hallway, I will see this desk, the blue curtains, a candle, and that shitty book.  My writing space, looking out at the evergreens, it wasn't even on the checklist.  

A Doe Writing: Why I Write

Last year, I attended Write Doe Bay, kinda really hated it, didn't relate to anyone, felt way too far away from home, and stopped writing for a solid eight months.  It was probably for personal reasons--I am still shy and introverted, but I was disappointed in the promise of Doe.  Everyone kept talking about it being magical. Except when you hype up the idea of magic, you're most likely disappointed in the lack of magic.  I think I wrote about that too.

We spent the days not writing very much, sprawled on the floor, all fifty something of us packed in one room.  Afterwards, in the evenings, we were encouraged to attend film festivals and music performances but I mostly stayed behind and wrote.  It felt awkward to do so at a writing workshop.  I want to put a question mark at the end of that sentence. Another writer stated "I am so impressed that you're writing", when she stopped by our bunk. What?  I came home proud of what I created in between and will share a few pieces in the next couple of weeks.  Most were quick observations, some very bitchy in part because I had spent my personal leave to attend, a bit raw and uncensored, but all to distract and ignite some creative spark.

Why I Write

There was a time, not so long ago, when I knew I had to rely on myself.  The belief was based on disappointing relationships and too much given to others.  The people in my life were not neglectful and none of this applies to K of course, but you cannot rely solely on a spouse.  I do believe, however, you can on yourself.  Never have I been abandoned, tormented, forgotten or left behind.  But deep within I believed the greatest relationship I would ever have would be with me.

Experiences and great loves have unlocked aspects of myself and aided in my own self-relationship.  Writing became a way of checking in.  It was not always good or consistent but it did do the trick every time.  This weekend, I found the trick worked.  Artists around me dredged on in self-angst.  Some still tormented by past demons, others just complaining for sake of script.

If nothing else,  I come away knowing I was right.  And you can be a know it all about things pertaining to your relationship with yourself.  It is a one way street.  So, I lay here and write to me, among so many who are too angry or shallot to see.  They are waiting for a love they are not ready to receive or a trauma they could prepare to heal.  And I instead will keep trying to be more, for the sole purpose of bettering myself.

It struck me how I am not writing about what has happened to me, more so I am writing what I am doing for myself.  The other writers share their "story", their pain, except I don't really have any.  We share very little back story and I wonder if it is on purpose.  To not muddy the words we share of even the playing field.  So much of my writing, all perhaps, revolves and relies on who I am.  My roles.  Wife, nurse, friend, bad friend, etc.  That's what I write about.  Washingtonian.  That's what I am. Tonight, I am writing.  For the first time in a long time, I am taking the time to write.

I walked down to the beach today and sat on the driftwood, like I've done hundreds of times before with the same drops of water. I sat and stared and tuned out everything else.  It felt peaceful and I was happy.  A presenter, an actual writer herself, came down with her friend, kicked a few rocks off the shore, lit a cigarette, and shrugged at the view then headed back towards the cabins.  On their way out, she asked if I was alright.  Of course I was, I've got me.

I feel very different from them all and it seems like a good thing.  I came here looking for something and am surprised by my progress at home.  So much is already figured out, the hard work was done a long time ago.  That's what I'll take with me.  It took going to Orcas to really understand what Iv'e created in myself.  

Season for Resolutions

It has rained, sometimes violently, for the past four days.  A welcomed sight.  We kept the windows opened, listening to the wind and water hit the house, the dew entering our lungs.  This rain, it can keep falling.  This summer, the fires spread across the state, leaving the air thick and the sky grim.  Friends and family on the other side of the mountains, as we say here, prayed the line would hold and spare their communities. Burn bans held and the rain stayed away.  This was the summer without bonfires, aware of the danger one spark could produce in the backyard.

Now, the rain falls.  It is a familiar sound, smell, and temperature.  We are ready for the fall and however it may begin to heal.

I've said too many times before, fall is my New Year's Eve. It makes more sense in my rational, sentimental, and occasionally skeptical brain to even attempt resolution making in the dead of winter.  After the high of the holidays and the lows of the dark and cold days? No one succeeds.  But right now with the promise of the best fashion has to offer and vibrant color-changing leaves?  The iron is hot.

Today was my last day of summer vacation and I'm relieved.  I've found something out about myself in the last few years.  Only, it's something recently present but I guess people can change and are ever evolving.  I LIKE working.  I thrive on the routine and schedule.  I define success in large part to what I am able to accomplish in my career.  So this staying home business, away from the interaction and ability to impact other's lives, it's so not for me.  I worry someday this feeling will be made out as wrong.  To which I'll have to reply something snarky and get on with it.  The new year, with new work-day tasks and goals.  I am celebrating.

This last day of summer I got stung by a wasp/yellow jacket/I'm still unsure.  I reached for the vase which displays my finest dahlias and immediately felt the sting when my finger dipped below the petals.  The finger swelled and the perpetrator was no where to be found.  Later, as the reddened area cooled, the insect was crawling at the back screen door waiting to be let out.  It is time to get out of the house, I agreed.

My resolutions are the same: write, move, laugh, experience, record, do better, and understand more. Less iPhone pictures, more with the real camera.   Heartier, sustainable meals.  Classical music.  Vinyl records.  Pen to paper.  Long talks about issues and ideas.  Walks with greater distances.  I ask myself lately if what I am doing right now is making me better, smarter, more compassionate and understanding of others.  Am I engaging my muscles and benefiting my body.  Am I reengaging areas of my mind.  Am I doing all I can?

It is fall, though the calendar says otherwise,  I can feel it.  We'll keep the windows open for months to let the fall air take over.

What It's All About

I use to keep this notebook in my very early 20's.  And when I say "keep", I mean not only would I write in it, I would take it everywhere with me.  A free moment on the ferry: I would reflect.  Run across an inspirational quote or relevant comic?  Add it to the pages.  Frustrated with what it all means?  Jot it down and return to it in a few months.  The leather bounding was multicolored, with a warning inside the front cover.  "This leather will fade and change colors throughout the years" due to it's fine craftsmanship or something like that.  Perfect, I thought.  I will too.

The notebook came about at a very tumultuous time in my life.  I was madly in love with a boy (though I know know it wasn't like that at all) who I thought was madly in love with me too.  Except, he was both terrible at showing me towards the end nor able to break things off.  We went back and forth for months.  Holidays and birthdays would bring about a renewal, things would be just okay for awhile, and then it would start all over again.  I hated myself knowing I was the one keeping this charade going.  So I bought the notebook and began to write, really write for once in my newly acquired adult life.

A page use to exist towards the front of this notebook.  It has escaped me long ago what prompted the writing on that page, but it became a moment of lucidity addressed to my future self.  Because of the last few months, I knew the time would come again when I would cave.  The pain would follow.  So I wrote a message to myself filled with self-worthy praise, love, and hope.

I ripped it out later.

The evidence remained: it wasn't a clean rip.  A corner of tattered paper stayed behind, blank, but nonetheless loud and clear.  I remembered why I had placed the message and could see clearly I had fallen for the trap anyways.


It wasn't until I threw all of his mementos and love notes into the dumpster did I become free.  The writing was the fuel, a reminder to not forget to light the match.

Writing via blogging replaced the notebook slowly a few years ago.  Equate it to all the other times in my life when I started a new journal.  In some form, writing has stayed with me.  Never perfect, often grammatically awkward, trying to be honest, I write to stay grounded.  Sometimes, even unconsciously, the words appear months later and have new meaning as if it was message from a lucid moment or a torn corner.

I looked everywhere for that notebook today.  I can't find it.  It's here somewhere, most likely in a box unpacked, surrounded by my real love's letters and treasures.  The cover surely changed but so gradual I may not notice.

It should be on the bookshelf, but might not have a place right now.

Every year I would write about what it's like to be that age.  20, confused about the path to take, alone in a studio apartment in Seattle, walking across to grab take-out Mexican, I am hopeful about the future but not sure if I will be loved again.  23, trying to work out the kinks, this is real love--I get it now, how do I define myself on the other side of the country?  27, hand me down furniture, dog hair everywhere, our plates still in boxes, moving back is not as easy as I thought it would be.

30.

I thought a lot about what I am about the last few days. It began with confidence, followed by doubt, reflection, and total dialysis.

I am most aware in the car and the shower.  Times when recording my thoughts are difficult.

Sometimes I can be out of my mind with anger, intensity, and misguided passion.  And then I feel really guilty.

I am a quietly opinionated mix of liberal ideas and conservative intentions.

When I have an idea or plan, I become too focused on the details and outcome.

I try to give the benefit of the doubt.  I really do try.

I am passionate about my community, new ways of doing things, and pursuing more educational opportunities.  I think that sentence is very preachy and self-righteous.

Before I met my husband, I had a narrow view of how the world and families function.  Since him, I have a system of checks and balances.

I can be stubborn and crass.  But I am not stubborn nor crass.

I have made mistakes.  I make some people crazy.

I do not prolong suffering.

Nostalgia makes me both emotional and wary.

Expectations for others are high but highest for myself.

The core weaknesses have remained: music, cooking, gardening, photography, writing, exercise, gift giving, Labradors, forests, bodies of water, long drives, and rice krispy treats.

I am sarcastic but intending to show love.

This all feels too exposed but I make myself do it.

Often, I give too much and set myself up for disappointment.

I am a valued nurse, loving wife, devoted daughter, and awkward friend.  I would like to work on the last one but am hesitant to try.

I am changing.  I have changed.  I am well intentioned and constantly self-evaluating.

This abbreviated version is how I am at 30, so far.  Aware this is all determinant against the filters, perspectives, and experiences of those I encounter in the world.


I am not always what I was.  But, I am always, always, working on it.

I'll keep evolving.  I'll keep writing, knowing I may read the words differently down the road.  The good will always outweigh the bad, I believe.   The notebook will show up again in a place where I had already checked.  The bookshelves will fill.  We will buy more and unpack another box.  A mixture of mine, his, ours, the past, the future we haven't discovered yet.  I'll read the words of the 23 year old again and smile at how it all turned out, proud of myself for trying.   Someday, I'll reflect upon this post and gawk at what I didn't know.

I can't always put thoughts or feelings into the right words.  This blog serves the purpose to simply maintain focus, create perspective for myself, and preserve the reflections I would otherwise forget about.  It has exactly two readers, who will correct sentence structure, understand lines on the screen, and recognize the progress.  It is not a weapon, statement, or podium.

It is a message to myself to remember who you are.  Where you've been.  What you've seen.  What you've learned.  What you hope to discover.  Keep taking photos of the land you love.  Try new restaurants in every corner of the state.  Create lists and mock your attempts at completing them.  Review your years and see how far you've come.  Remember the lessons you gained in Pennsylvania.  Make mistakes. Fill your shelves and walls with a well-lived life.  Regret, then understand, then regret nothing.  Say your good-byes and look for opened arms. Hug trees.  Jump in lakes.  Don't jump in canals anymore, it's kinda dangerous.   Be honest.  Be open to it all

Keep writing. Jot it all down and see what happens.

Summer 2015

It is so hot.

Too hot.

The grass is dormant, not dead.  And no, I won't water it anymore.

But the tomatoes, they are doing very well!

Sometimes I hug the tomato plants so the smell of the vines carry inside.

I may try planting more beans and peas.  Maybe we'll have another round?

It has just begun and will end soon.

Let's keep working.

No popsicles for the neighbors this year.

But there are sunflowers for the whole neighborhood to enjoy.

Fireworks at the resort with a front row seat.

Coming home to music and pasta.

Very tan shoulders. And legs and left arm.

We will wait on a house.  We are young, wild, and free.

I write.  He reads.

The dahlias are coming.

I check my work email every few weeks.  I do miss it.

This will be the shortest summer on record.

Chamomile and rehabilitated nasturtiums.

I take pictures again.

There is a season, turn, turn, turn.

We made a list, but it can carry into the year.

I hope fall brings cooler weather.

To recap, I gardened a lot.

Down the Oregon Coast

We found our beach last December after a few summers away from our old beach.  Part of living on the East Coast is vacationing to the shore.  For us, it was always and will forever be Ocean City, MD.  I miss the soft shell crabs, rainbow umbrellas, and late night boardwalk brawls.  I knew we needed to find two important locations for K when we moved here: our bar and our beach.  The first was crossed off the list within months and now the beach is officially ours.

The day after Christmas, in between unwrapping presents and packing moving boxes, we made our first trip to Lincoln City, Oregon.  It was a trip planned way before we knew we would have to move or experience the frustration of trying to find a new place.  The trip was bad timing but it was just what we needed.   This time around, we brought our family and the dogs came along again because they did so well in the car in December.  

My dad mentioned a few times the suitable beaches we were passing on our way down.  But getting there is half the fun, I reminded myself.  It took a few hours to get to Ocean City, we should expect just as much in our new beach.

This beach does not have a boardwalk and I doubt there are soft shell crabs near by.  But it has soft, warm sand and steady waves, so it will just have to do.

We stayed for only a few days but managed to pack in some special memories.  My dad and I took the yellow pup to the beach the first night and captured the only sunset of the trip.  I joined my mom twice in the ocean, the second time we sat down on the shore letting the waves cover us.  After quite awhile on the shore, the yellow pup of mine came bounding up to us and it felt like we had bumped into a friend for a few seconds.  K and I got away and fit in an afternoon date at the local driving range. His surgically repaired wrist is doing quite well according to his golf swing.  We all slept, lounged, got sand everywhere, and took it all in.

The morning of the last day, I woke early and ventured down to the beach myself.  I dreaded the walk back up the hill but kept walking along the beach.  It was foggy, with a light drizzle, and nearly empty on the sand.  In the distance stood tall, dark rocks with promises of full tide pools.  I kept walking, knowing the distance and effort usually produced exciting results.  A local woman pointed out hidden star fish, pink and orange, clinging to the mussel laden rocks.  And as always, I was glad I walked a little farther.

We've been back a few days.  The weekend was heavy with Mike's funeral and without the constant hum of the ocean around us.  But we will be back, beach.

This Night

On this night, an old friend is dying and a new friend labors.  I toss and turn.  My husband sleeps soundly next to me, strong and resilient from the day.  The dogs, warm and tucked under the covers between us, have years promised by our side.  Counting flocks will not be sufficient tonight.  Maybe I'll keep vigil instead.

Tonight, I think about Mike exclusively.  The friend who labors is just fine, especially with the hope of a baby in her arms.  Still, to compare the birth of a baby with a life ending too soon, it is all too much.  We rushed to the hospital tonight, our plan to see him Friday eliminated.  I stroked his forehead, whispered "we are going now Mike, we will miss you, but we will see you again" in his ear, and gently kissed his hand before leaving.  His wife, Pat, so positive and sturdy, hugged us tightly.

I swallowed the tears until Pat laid in the bed with Mike and told him who had come to visit.  "You brought so many people into my life, you did so well my love," she shared. Poetic.  K later thanked me for the same, though indirectly, by moving here.  "Look at this circle of friends we have, almost like family," he said.  Though some have moved in and out, he was right.  I replied I wished we had met them all a bit sooner and danced with them at our wedding.  It seemed only right these people should be part of our biggest day.  But, our big days don't begin and end there.  The days like this night, with the friends who will stay even when gone, are just as important.  I think too often of the friendships which are lost, what had happened, what could have been done differently.  I dwell on them too much, because I miss the connection and regret the outcome.  But, that's life.  Loved ones will come and go, through choice or circumstances.  Tonight, we said good bye to one friend who will leave with our love in his ear, and I couldn't ask for anything more than that.

Tomorrow, we will be greeted with good and bad news.  Like most days.  We will continue to do the best we can with what we have and try to expect the same in those around us.  Life will march on and most of the time we will take things for granted.  This is the nature of us all.  But whenever I look down at a cup of coffee, or see a Navy hat, or hear about New Orleans cuisine, I'll think about Mike-- his booming voice, unrelenting determination, and strong embrace.  And I'll think about making the day count before I run out of opportunity. I'll look up at the sky and promise to keep fighting the fight.  Keep bringing new members into my world.  Keep trying to make my community better.  Keep counting the blessings before me.

My heart is engraved with the sights and sounds of this night.  Sleep peacefully and go forth, Councilman.  We will take it from here.

In Between

I sat up in bed frustrated last night, as if I had forgotten to cross something off my list recently.  Except it was more than that.  Except, really, it wasn't like that at all.  I couldn't pinpoint what was the core of my frustration, only able to skim the surface of what may be causing my furrowed forehead.  It didn't cause a lack of sleep but it didn't sit well with me either.

"Is there something else we should be doing right now?" I questioned K.  "Not, right now this instant, but around this time?"

He, in the middle of completing a master's degree and days removed of staying at his job until dawn, couldn't come up with any missing agenda item on our life to do list.

But, I couldn't shake the feeling there was an oversight.

So we dug deeper.

Others are buying houses, having kids, and settling in. In between the usual dreams of property and descendants, we exchange plans for promotions, projects, and academia.  We are waiting for the right piece of land, enjoying the duo we've created, and searching for a balance of permanent and improvised.  Still, it's common to want what you don't have. But, K reminds me, it's also sometimes better to dream about what is not yet achieved.

A little bit deeper now.

"This is a funny time in our lives." I say.

We grow up with milestones: crawling, walking, preschool, 5th grade, graduation, marriage. First this and that.  Each year of our time on earth marked by a new event or turning point.  "And then," I explain, "you have kids and you watch them grow and it all repeats itself."

So what about this time right now, when there are no life events in the horizon, just him and me?  We work hard, satisfied and fulfilled with our careers, spend the rest of the time together, thrive with healthy social circles, and try not to alter anything in a big way just yet.

Finally, the core.

"Do not put yourself, or us, on anyone else's time line," he says.

I am finally able to relax, now understanding we are where we should be.  It may be like this for a bit or life might be transitioning without our awareness.  Whatever this time is suppose to be, I will cherish it.  Sometimes I look at K and think we would be enough for this lifetime.  Our bond and friendship is the most important relationship I will have.  But we know other things are in our future, no matter how we get there.  This time, this moment in our life together, though strange and lacking major celebration, will be remembered as the plaster which reinforced our foundation.

In the meantime, we will be happy.  And maybe always a bit uneasy, for there remains a drive in both of us to cross more things off lists.

I Stopped Writing.

The mornings were dense with thick fog which lingered over the water, between the trees, hiding the horizon. I woke up the minute I would have at home. The fog, myself, and a dewy bench started the mornings on the island. Others would wake well after the fog had passed, when the sky's pink faded had gone with and I already completed morning. By then, an exchange was made with me and the salt water, a meditation sent forth, and a story already written.  

In the evenings, and every other break, I slipped away and wrote: about the island, the state, the love song I was proud of writing that day, the women who  shared divorce stories like Girl Scout badges, and how surprised I was to already have some things figured out. I wrote because I had to. Deep inside I craved it. The workshop provided very little opportunity and so an even larger void was needed to be filled. The writing flowed until I boarded the ferry boat and from there I haven't written since. 

My goal for the weekend included understanding where to go from here with my writings. To blog or stop. I felt liberated on the boat, disappointed in the opportunity and attitude of some presenters, but with a few choice pieces under my belt by chance and the ability to come ashore again. The weeks after came with some desire to pick up where I left off. But, it didn't happen. The flame had already been extinguished. 

Now, I lay here seven months later, the experience still fresh and still with the same opinion. Except, tonight I write. I write about it and I write about how I feel.  I will credit Doe Bay for allowing me to see what has existed in myself through writing and that should be enough. 

Tonight I write and I think I'll write some more.