Spring List!

To get me out of the post-op funk, allow me to write my annual Spring List.  You can view past list here and here and here.


I was reading the original Spring List tonight, from back in the day when the Spring List was teeny, doable, and had no history.  I picked six things.  I did those six things.  Much different from last year when I did probably nothing.  A simpler time when every other word was the boyfriend, Kelle Hampton (blogging idol, you know), and so many words were in quotations.  As if I was talking to someone.  The List was not so much about Spring things, but about tasks that would get me out of the shadow of Winter and into a kind of freshness.  I guess. 


The Spring List circa 2010 did lead to the most epic NSYNC harmonizing road-trip of all time with "the boyfriend" now "husband".  But, I digress. 



My point is, I'm keeping it small this year.  I'm on the mend, money is tight, and I barely have time to type this.  So, here it is, my Spring List of 2014. 

1. Turn this into something beautiful and functional

2. Take her on a hike and spend every minute telling her to stop whining. Then reach the top of the trail head and revel in her puppy joy.

3. Spend some time getting healthy. Ice or no ice. 

4. Get back to writing by a) reading about things that inspire me; b) experience things that are worth writing about; and c) writing. 

5. Spend a weekend outside, covered in dirt, happy, sweaty, pulling green stuff out of the ground and putting different green stuff into it. 

Things change but time continues to fly by.  I laugh at my old lists--at the style of presentation and the awkward ambition to cross everything off. That's perfectly fine though---we have to remember how we started to appreciate what we've done since. 

Ice

 

I have nothing prolific to say except that I have spent the last few weeks in this position or teeter-tottering my way on two feet.  Surgery was successful and surprisingly positive from the doctor's perspective.  Bittersweet Symphony played overhead when I entered the OR and I thought it was just the weirdest, almost out-of-body experience.  The nurse who took care of me is an acquaintance and says after, I asked immediately if I could go now.  Little I remember, except that it was fast and for a while painless, the worst being the IV in my hand. 

 

For now, the out-of-body continues.  Though the knee is functional and I threw the crutches to the side after two days, part of it is numb. A pin-prick numbness that is also painful with the slightest touch.  All of it is swollen.  The rest of my body feels sluggish and underutilized.  I long to participate and work up a sweat.  The doctor tells me "you will become a swimmer" and running is not a good idea.  He, my family, the physical therapist, everyone says to slow down, take it easy, relax.  But no.  I want to thrive! to explore! to conquer! to kneel at least. 

 

The doctor rents out an ice machine in the form of a cooler connected to a motor, connected to tubing, which wraps around the knee and circulates fresh ice water.  It hums quietly.  I should use it three times a day.  But, I'm restless.  Tired of laying around, instead interested in strengthening muscles and picking up the pace.  Yet, here I am, icing. 

 

Oso

Twelve years ago, many of us crammed into a van, drove for awhile, fell asleep on each other, and woke up to green grass, tall trees, and blue sky.  I don't remember the pop-up tents, any meal we shared, or how long we stayed.  The things I do remember are the conversations, the laughter, the sparks from the fire, and the river.  Nestled behind a row of steady evergreens, the river seemed to appear out of nowhere.  The rocks smooth and the current just fast enough to loose a flip flop if not careful.  I remember the rocks and I remember the water.  I remember wanting to sleep on the riverbank the first night, to wake up and only see the earth.  The camp ground was small, accommodating enough for only our group.  The couple who owned the land lived there too, renting out the property for camping adventures.  A bit of hospitality even in the wilderness. 

We joked that we were in the middle of nowhere, though most of the group lived in far more remote locations.  Oso, to teenagers who never heard of the name, became "oh-so-faraway".  I forgot this little play on words, even forgot the town's name in the first 24 hours of hearing about the disaster.  Then, it all surged back to me--the tan shoulders, the smiling faces, the constant warmed sunshine, and the riverbank.  The memory far away perhaps, but the town is a day trip close.  We purge so much from our consciousness, even the good stuff. 


I ache for Oso, for those who are lost, for those who have lost.  I ache for my state, my home, for those who are in the trenches digging, for those who want to do more but can't.  Houses gone, farms gone, families gone, life gone. 

The humanity is beautiful.  Lines of volunteers.  Local grocery stores and thrift shops giving.  Large corporations donating and their employees promising to match. Churches opening their doors and not filling a room because neighbors are packing their houses tonight.  It is devastatingly beautiful.  We are once again, in tragedy, reminded to give more, love more, do more for our community and those around us.  

I cannot be in Oso tonight, I may only be able to contribute monetarily and be of no other use.  But, I can sit here and send my heart to them and wake up tomorrow willing to make my community better.  Everyday should be spent building up my neighbors and showing them that I want to help.  We should be in solidarity as a state, as a nation, and show Oso that we are here.  For each green and blue flag that waves in every town after victory, so should there be even more signs of support in tragedy.   

Someday, I know the grass will glimmer in the sun and the water will run crystal clear. I am certain that joy will return to the towns and communities will rebuild.  For this I know, someday I will again dip my feet in the current and this time offer a prayer.   I don't blame them for living under a mountain.  I would have slept on the riverbank every night. 

We Saw, We Ate: an Instagram Post

Like promised, here is a recap of my weekend in Seattle.  A friend and I just needed to get away.  Desperately.  We were tired of the "this side of the water" bullshit and were in need of some culture.  Don't get me wrong, I love living where I live.  But, I really love living where I live because it is a short ferry ride to the city. 

This post is sub-titled, I love Loulay.

Loulay was her idea, and I tried to pay her back with Tom Douglas the next day. 

Gorgeous, happening, generous--we dined on clams and sunchoke cakes and I decided right then and there that the only way to drink water with your dinner is after it has been poured from a glass bottle.

And then it happened, we met the chef in the hat.  He kissed our cheeks and I wondered why a bingo card of Seattle chefs has never been invented.  I'd have two squares already. 

They do the greatest thing at Loulay--leave a little notebook behind with the check so you and your guests can leave a little love behind.

The rest of the weekend, I will show in photos.  They speak for themselves. 

 

Ok, except this one.  Cauliflower soup from Seatown.  AMAZING. 

 

We went back to Loulay Saturday night.  Sat at the bar with the cutest bartenders with swirly mustaches.  How very Seattle. 

When I got home, I recited everything we ate and drank that weekend.  A success.  I swiped a few coasters from the bar--reminders on the coffee table that culture is something you take with you. 

It Rains

Welcome to March, the shittiest, grayest of months.  The days promising to become longer, filled with daylight, yet the clouds cover the blue.  March is a horrible month to move to Washington.  March is too cold to plant anything decent, but not cold enough to layer properly.  It's long and it's a bothersome. 

But, it is the start of Spring.  Blue skies do eventually appear and I do a little dance every time a flower pokes it's head through the damp soil.  March sucks, but it has a purpose.  It's here to make you want to open the windows and let the Spring air in, but its cold air forces you to remember how great that will feel.  Everything should be appreciated in its own time.  Yesterday I put up Easter decorations, despite my husband's concerned look.  It is very much too early.  I should slow down and enjoy shamrocks before they become passé.  No doubt I will get tired of Easter egg window clings in a few weeks, or not even notice them at all.  Just like the pat-pat-pat on the roof top--it will soon be few and far between. 

Next week I will have surgery on a knee who has aged far faster than the rest of my body.  A simple dislocation on Valentine's Day 1999, when my brother and I goofed around and produced the loudest, horrendous grinding pop known to man, has been quite painful the last few weeks.  You are 28? the ortho doc asks.  I pretend I can't read black and white pictures on the screen.  Where did the last 15 years go? I wonder.  Maybe I shouldn't have played tennis or became a nurse.  Did I treat my body like I should have or did it become something I acknowledged then forgot about?  The surgery should be simple, like the original injury.  I look forward to the downtime and binging on television shows and sleep. 

However, I know I need to be present in the next 15.  Take the next couple of months to rehab, as shitty and miserable as it will be, and to be patient with each step.  March is the worst month in Washington, but transition isn't always a bad thing. 




On a side note, how cute are these two deer, munching on the flowers which I have reserved a dance with?   

 

They don't even notice the rain.  You could even argue the fluffy one is enjoying it. 

Allyn

There is a new struggle brewing to expand into the community and, at the same time, be very picky with who comes in. I think it has to do with a desire to help others but the wisdom knowing mean people are just not worth my time. Is it a growing up kind of thing, maybe past hurts have taught us to be careful with our hearts, but continue to love as much as possible? It is a great thing to meet new people, but also special to keep it small and personal. I want to get in deep with my town but have only a couple plates at the dinner table. Give myself to others but show everything to a select few. 

This side of the water is very different. Especially this side of this side of the water. Neighbors can be acres apart. We live on an island that is inhabited by Seattleites who visit every other weekend starting in June. I know the dogs name next door but can't remember the women's who is always calling for him. 

And god can people be weird here. There is an underlying weirdness to every Washingtonian (my favorite traveling game is "from Seattle"--identifying that traveller who definitely lives here). But weird is a whole new level in this county. Like "get off my land!" and don't try to learn my name kind of weird. There are pockets of civilization and hope for community, but no strong push. 

We want to live here, in this house if we can, for a real long time. Long enough to build fences and grow perennials. Maybe even plant trees. So we think a lot about how we can get involved and improve our community. How can I help? Who will be important to me? 

But we also know that we value our little life. Our select few who have stuck around. Maybe it's not just growing up, it's adapting to our environment too. 

Say Thank You

I spent the weekend in Seattle which is enough for a whole other post. It was my first weekend away with just a friend, and I promise I will share the details of our culinary adventure soon (lots of TD!). But the best part was the exploring. New food, new streets, new gadgets, new smells, it was all part of the experience. 

There was this one restaurant we kept going back to. Bubbly drinks, fantastic courses, silver chandeliers and mirrors above our heads, chefs working hard in front of us. At the end of the meal, they leave a book with the check. You are meant to draw a picture or sign your gratitude.  Almost like a prayer of thanks after you finish your food. What a concept. 

How often do we thank? How many opportunities go by to express how great something was? To a friend, family member, teacher, barista, chef--who do we compliment and in turn share a bit of ourselves to? 

A good restaurant has to do with the food and its people.  Something will taste good, yes, but if it's served with enthusiasm or by a cute bartender with a wicked mustache, god is it better. 

I spent the weekend eating but I was thankful along the way. I ate and talked and shared. To my friend, the waiter, my city, myself.