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. 

Write.

It is day 2 at Doe Bay. I appreciate the workshop but understand more the need to be in silence. In the circle, I share a story I have never hidden. At break, I duck away--eager for the chance to just be with myself. So many come here to find their whole self. I think I will go away realizing I have discovered that already. 

Now I sit on the beach, under a tree, on top of the driftwood that is dry. I know this place because it is a screenshot of so many parts of Washington. The trees and water are the same. The horizon is the only difference--Olympics replaced by islands. 

I'm glad I came here but the real joy is retuning home to see what you've already built. 

Up and Over

We visited Neah Bay a few weeks ago, as a last-ditch effort to see something good this Summer.  The thick marine layer obstructed most of the view and I felt a little silly driving all that way.  But, the car conversation was worth it and I am happy to know another corner of Washington.

Up there, the highway hugs the coast and curves along the rocks.  The radio and cell phone flips back and forth between US and Canadian signals.  It is, for the most part, just you and your passenger existing in that space.  The remoteness is daunting.  Made worse by the fog.

I don't know if we will go back.  We can't exactly call ahead and ask how the view will be that day.  Still, it is all part of the great state I love, and therefore worthy of a few quick paragraphs.