life in the woods

We used to create pretend lives in the woods.

 

The first instances I remember are with my sister. Our first pretend home was the center of a circle of forsythia bushes. They were directly outside of our real home, but it was our own little hideaway. The round bushes seemed to create a wall with a tunnel to enter through. Once inside, it was like we were "big kids" in our own little home, closed in by powdery yellow with an open sky.

 

Our next was the giant pines a little farther up the yard. Pennsylvania really has some great pine trees. These were maybe forty or fifty feet tall with long, thick branches along the bottom, which were great for two purposes: 1) they created a skirt around the tree where we could hide (our new walls) 2) they were thick enough and low enough for us to begin the climb. We'd take turns, each climbing as high as we could (we were always climbing trees). Sometimes we'd lie down on the branches & pretend they were our beds, as if our bedrooms were just on different levels of our house.

 

(Now that I think about it, my sister always begged my dad for a treehouse. We sort of got it after years and years of piece by piece construction. We spent one night in it (still unfinished), and that was it. Never got done. But that's okay because I think we were better off for it because we had better times living in the trees because a treehouse isn't a wooden structure built among trees--it's just trees & an imagination.)

 

I have no idea what I thought as a four or five year old climbing those pine trees. The memories come in small snippets of questionable truth. Picturing me up in the pine feels like we were pirates, climbing the highest mast to lookout for intruders. I guess that's partially true--we never wanted to be found.

 

Yet a smidge farther up the yard, there was a small opening between clumps of trees that was its own cove, complete with…you guessed it--a brilliant old clawfoot tub. By brilliant, I may mean covered in dirt & algae and filled it the greenest water and the occasional turtle.

 

As I'm writing this, I’m realizing that is becoming more a list than a story of our many play-venture homes in the woods, barely touching the details of each. I'll settle for a few more before making my point.

 

There was this place we called the picnic area--a spacious opening between the trees where my family had set up picnic tables, a barbeque, & everything else necessary for a party. However, by the time we took to playing there, it had been long out of use and falling apart: a shadow of its former life.

 

At the far end of the clearing, a large beam sat propped on poles--a few railroad ties broken & balanced in their own little Stonehenge. We used to climb on the tie and use it as a balance beam, though I think its intended purpose was to be a serving table for food. Over a dip in the landscape, near the thickening woods, a small rotting hut sat full of pots & pans & random kitchen utensils. Sometimes we would go in there (usually on a dare) to sneak around for something for our pretend homes.

 

The picnic area was great for our play-pretend because everything we needed was already there. When the area was cleared away, we scraped our way deeper into the woods to build a new house. We’d graduated far from our old homes in the woods where we just played pretend that the trees were walls & rooms & living utensils--for this one, we took a level & made our best twelve-year-old attempts to create flat ground out of the hill. We then laid down plywood: floor complete.

 

Living up the road from a junk yard, we decided we should go rummage around for some other household items. We settled for one tire, which we rolled all the way up the hill around the bend, down & up another hill & back into the woods. We dug a hole and placed the tire over the hole: toilet.

 

Derek's parents had this little plastic garden wagon. We would fill it with utensils & snacks & attach it to Derek's wheelchair for him to tow it back into the woods for us--the beginnings of yet another woodland home.

 

So there we were: us & our play-pretend homes with our play-pretend lifestyles and our play-pretend futures.

 

I went camping last weekend. I snuck away a few times to just sit in the woods alone. There was a "primitive campsite" back into the woods--just a small open clearing, big enough for a tent. It wasn't occupied, so I'd go & sit on the small stone bench. Looking up: the break in the trees; looking around: the rustling, moving stillness of the forest; listening: silence, silence & birds in swooping whistles.

 

These are things I haven't experienced in a while. I've missed them. It all feels so familiar; I wished I could lie down in the grass & pretend that I was in one of our play homes in the woods. I actually did try, but it didn't take long to realize just how far removed my current life is from all of that--city, noise, pollution, solitude. I think that's a major downfall to being an adult: even when you try to imagine your life as different, it's all of the current intricacies that keep you bolted down in what is real.

 

I began to wonder if I would ever again have a home in the woods. I tried to imagine a career scenario that would allow it. I've often dreamt of living Annie Dillard's solitary writing life in a cabin in North Puget Sound. I don't know how to make that happen; now, after living so deep in the city, I’m not sure I could. Like how I wanted to live alone in the desert and am now beginning to realize how crazy of an idea that was for me in particular.

 

The idea of life in the woods again feels distant & impossible, like the prospect that one day I would have a husband & children. The truth is that I don't know what I want. I know what I've had and what I've loved, but I cannot say with certainty what I want. This is a strange place for me --yes, me, the girl with the evolving 5-year plans. Maybe it's just today.

 

I soaked in as much of the silent time with the trees as I could. Those moments are extremely rare these days, so I sopped it all up like our campsite did the rain, & I packed myself home to return to the present, the city.

'love is blindness'

They say some situations are like “the blind leading the blind” as if that were a bad thing. I think we’re all blind and scrambling the world hand-in-hand with each other.

There is a man who is always outside of my building helping people park. He’ll point to the “No Parking” sign and read the fine print that reveals that the spot is valid for that time, “Here’s your proof of the truth” he says.

Today, he was walking the same way as Pickle & me. “Hey babycakes,” he says to Pickle. He always greets her like that. He also always tells me that I’m doing a good job raising my puppy and that she’s such a sweet dog. When we go out for our late-night walks, he says, “Honey, what are you doing out so late? You be careful.” I don’t even know his name, but he cares for us.

“Love ‘em” he said today, “If you show love to people, they’ll love you back. I love everyone in this city.”

“You know everyone in this city!” I said as he greeted the row of usual homeless folks on First.

“This is true, and I love them. These people here,” he pointed to the men and women sitting dirty against the buildings, “are the most protective people in Seattle; they look out for each other.”

I didn’t believe him, but on the walk back, I felt like I had my ‘in’. They all greeted Pickle and said she was a sweet dog. They didn’t ask for a penny or make rude comments or gestures. Just hello. For one of the first times since moving downtown, I felt a sense that this was how the world was supposed to be.

I’m not neglecting the fact that these people were homeless. That may sound crude, but hear me out.

At the dog park, a man with a dog named “Legacy” told me about his love for his dog and his life—a life without a home. “I chose this life. Some people pity me, but that’s fine for them.  I don’t care what they think. I love my dog, and I’m not going to do anything that puts him in jeopardy. We come to the dog park everyday, and some people don’t like me because of the way I live, but you know what? I chose this. I’ll help people—watch their dogs, brush out their dogs undercoat—and they’ll give me a few bucks; sometimes they’re really generous, giving me prepaid VISAs or buying me a meal. I don’t need to own anything. I just need my best friend.”

Don’t think me naïve. I know there are people out there who instead of helping you park, will steal your dollars, and there are people who are homeless just to haggle you, and there is a man who always stands at 4^th and Pine with a sign that says “I need me a fat bitch.” They’re out there, and they’re scary, and they’re sneaky, but I think it’s important to find the people in this city who do care for others and aren’t trying to cheat you and will protect you.

One morning, Pickle I were down at the waterfront park watching the yellows deepen the city into morning with a blissful calm. Suddenly, shattered glass and spray—a man had slammed a bottle of Jack Daniels in the sidewalk only a foot from me and my dog. Pickle started and ran to my feet. I stood in shock and bent to check her paws for glass. The man stood cussing at the air. A different man walked by and asked if we were okay. We were fine. We were more than fine because even in the unreasonable chaos of the city, a stranger bothered to make sure we were alright.

This is the city: people come and go, but you mostly see the same faces all over town. Even though I know only a few people, these friendly strangers make me feel like I belong here.

I haven’t been writing lately. I’ve been caught in the busyness of transition—living downtown, settling in, a new job in the works. Most of the time in my newly found adult life, I feel like I have no idea what I am doing. Looking around, I think a lot of others are just like me: doing whatever it takes to get by and find happiness.

Twice now, I have seen two different couples guiding each other through the bus tunnels: blind. Each pair did the same thing—held each other arm in arm and felt ahead with the safety poles. Somehow, I have a feeling they all made it where they were aiming to go.

So here we are—we’re all working our way through, arms outstretched before us seeking joy, but when we show love by just taking one of those arms into the arm of another, we really are just the blind leading the blind, but it’s a hell of a lot better than being alone.

ramblings on wheels (& a lot of parenthesis)

I have to admit, since moving to my new apartment, I feel old. This new place offers the illusion that I’ve got things figured out just because I live on my own and have my own bedroom. (I still just can’t get over that: SO blessed to have landed here.) I think part of the influence comes from the fact that the building itself is quite old, built in 1907, and offers old-age charm like high ceilings & original plumbing as well as attracts a wider variety of tenants (as opposed to the hip, new building I was at before).

But really, I come home, make dinner (something I haven’t had time to do consistently in so long), maybe do the dishes (life without a microwave or dishwasher is seriously amazing; teaches me to slow down a bit), watch an episode of something, read, write, record a song, feed the turtle, walk the dog—any variation of these things. It’s all very “adult”, and I haven’t figured that out: while most of my peers are going out to bars and drinking excessively and hooking up with strangers, I’m home pretending to be better than them because I’m “accomplishing life goals” and can drink a glass of wine with dinner & be in bed by 10:30 and still get seven hours of sleep.

Don’t get me wrong: I love this. I think it’s amazing to be here with so much going on outside and having time and space to write and play with my dog—but I can’t help but wonder if I’m missing out or at least missing something. I don’t want what others my age have; I’m not a get-drunk-on-weeknights kind of person, or really a get-drunk-at-all kind of person. Admittedly, I haven’t even intentionally gone to a bar yet in the year+ that I’ve been in Seattle (by intentionally, I mean, there are places that I go to eat that serve alcohol that have a bar in them, but I don’t go there to drink).

So if I can’t keep up the writer’s life without feeling like I’m missing something, and I’m not a public drinker (sorry, Hem), then what is it?

I’m starting to get an idea. It’s the road. I miss the road. I miss having a car and the freedom to just go for a drive and end up somewhere new and have new experiences outside of the city. There is much to see here, of course, and I love it, but I don’t always fit in with the city-vibe (one reason I didn’t move to Capitol Hill, though everyone I know says I’d fit in great there…). I like to stay home, but I like to adventure beyond the city limits. I can’t even get to Ikea in my current situation. Further, I’ve also realized that things like zipcar & car-2-go are out of reach as well because my phone doesn’t have an app for them (this is soon to change…).

Do I regret selling my car? Not at all: it’s a season. Though my car was great, it’s been such a blessing to not have to pay for insurance, worry about parking, continually not afford repairs. It’s also taught me a lot about dependence—I can’t get everywhere I want to anymore. While I bike, bus, or walk most places, not everywhere is within reach, so I’ve learned to depend on others for a ride or borrowing their car for a day or so.

I’m starting to get the feeling, though, that this will not be a prolonged season. In my journal, I made an oath to myself that I wouldn’t buy a car until my student loans were paid off. I think I’m a liar because I don’t think I could go about 5-10 years without road trips or weekend get-aways. Plus if I go to grad school (God-willing it would be funded, but if not…) those loans would get bigger, not smaller. In the meantime, my puppy & I need to go!

I told my sister that if she moved back West, I’d immediately get a car so I could visit her. (I’m obsessed with roadtrips, and West-coast drives are so scenic, vast, and variant that I forget that the rest of the world exists—like when I drove through a snowstorm in Oregon to get to the dry deserts of Phoenix.)

I also resolved to myself that I would wait to get a car until I moved to Montana for grad school (why do I make such strange resolutions that are based on options floating in the air that I have no commitment to?). Everything is so unpredictable that I can’t keep a single promise to myself about the future (I really don’t have the final say, thank God).

So here I am: sitting on the couch, as I have been, admittedly, most of the weekend (the unceasing winter rain makes the couch very appealing) and probably will be tomorrow as well. I’ve spent my time doing yoga (not on the couch, obviously), reading Pride & Prejudice (which I can’t spell (pride & prejuice?) and have—for shame— never read before), and snuggling with my dog with a lavender scented pillow under my head & a tie-dyed blanket that Katlin made for Derek years ago keeping us warm, as Pickle’s little (actually large, but as she is still a puppy (and always will be to me), all of her accounts for “little”) head sticks out above my feet, warming my toes under her whiskered chin.

Who knows what’s next? Seriously. I change my mind so much that I am beginning to wonder if I even have a mind—it’s probably just a bunch of pieces of a brain all mushed together trying to function as one. Who knows when I’ll next have wheels (God knows I can’t even think of affording that right now) or even leave the couch (very much affordable to stay put right here!)? For the most part, we’re happy, Pickle & me, and that’s all that matters. 

welcome home

I’ve been at my new apartment for one and a half weeks, and I’m nearly settled in. I keep telling myself that once this happens or that comes in the mail or I do this one thing, I’ll be home; I’ll be settled. I’ll be in it for the long run.

I feel shockingly committed to this apartment. We always knew that the last place was temporary. This one feels good—great location, great space, solitude. I’m really happy about it and hoping to stay for a few years. Yes, I said years. Plural. We’ll see how I feel in 6 months or so.

But really, I am oddly happy. I think I am caught in the euphoric novelty of the apartment & living alone. Before I moved, I was afraid that I would be too lonely. I’m still afraid of that, but this week is aptly filled with hangouts, so really, I’m not too worried. What I am worried about is the sadness.

The sadness that creeps in whenever it wants to, without warning or cause, and overrules anything else I may be feeling. Week one was okay, but by Friday, I could feel it pushing its way in through the register and the windows and the cracks between the couch.

I guess there’s no sense worrying about something I don’t feel yet, especially when I feel so happy now, so totally content with what my life looks like from a bird’s-eye-view. I get too worried about details. Let’s be real, I’m settled in here.

Pickle is too. She loves running from the living room to the bedroom, and just getting to say that makes me so happy: rooms. She loves jumping onto the bed or over the couch. She also has a strange obsession with hiding her toys under the living room rug and the trying to get them out by chewing on the rug. We’re working on it.

SO here it is from a glance. 

Entry way, complete with boxes, Dali calendar from 2012, and dog.

Pickle abides. 

Living room window. 

1st Ave

Broken strings, but who cares? The guitars made it up!

She's usually a better welcome committee lead than this. Trust me, if you come over, she'll leap to greet you with a much happier face. 

"The office"/kitchen "table" (this has actually progressed since this photo: now featuring bar stools & a calendar!)

The kitchen: kettle on the stove, feels like home.

BEDROOM! When I toured the apartment, we walked into the living room, and I was like "woah, this is a small studio," (seeing only the living room) and the lady said, "oh no, it's a one bedroom". I nearly fainted with joy. So.Much.Space.

 Books and more books, of course. It's a comfort thing. More decorations to come.

Maybe it's weird to showcase my bathroom, but come on, there's a corner toilet. Awesome. 

home&hope

I’ve lost all sense of home. I’ve come to the realization that I find “home” in being able to control my life.

My family in Pennsylvania is entirely well and unwell at the same time, and there’s not a thing I can do from 3,000 miles away.

Not only can I not afford a plane ticket, but I apparently can’t afford to move to a new apartment. But I also cannot afford not to move, as our rent is about to skyrocket.

I’ve been diving through possibilities, and my hope has skyrocketed and plummeted about fifteen times just this week. Endless craigslist searching, phone calls, apartment visits. I cannot bring myself to pinch pennies for a 400 sq. ft. apartment. It’s just not worth it. Maybe I won’t be okay living alone, but I like to think that I would if I had just a little bit of space. I thought space was something people needed from each other—really, space is just something we need to feel comfort.

Growing up, Derek, Katlin, and I were obsessed with a computer game called the SIMS—a simulated life. We would build houses for these charaters that we created. We’d decorate with wallpaper and furniture, and then let them live out their lives in record time. They’d get jobs and sleep and talk in jibber-jabber. Building their homes was always my favorite part, but we could never make a complete home with the allotted beginning budget. We had to use a cheat to get more money to build what they needed (and then some). And when their houses were too small, they’d stand in the room with thought bubbles over their heads exclaiming “X#?!Y*%^” as they pulled at their heads and shook their fists in the air. A caption would appear saying “Your Sim is feeling cramped. She is unhappy because she doesn’t have enough space.”

I need space. I currently have to navigate around our couch to enter my matress on the floor from the top or bottom. There is no space. I sleep on a mattress on the floor. Our walls are coated with books—my nearest solace, yet my enemy because they take up even the illusion of space. And yet, I can’t bring myself to pick up a single one lately.

Sure, I shouldn’t complain. I’m twenty-two and have a load of opportunity unfolding. I have a mattress at least, even if it is on the floor. This is how twenty-two-year-olds are supposed to live. But I’ve never lived up to my age. I don’t know. I still make friends with thirty-somethings yet am continually the youngest—at work, at church, in my family.

I like to see it as progress—I’m doing something. I’m out here testing the waters. If life would have happened like it was supposed to, I’d really be in my last semester of college. Instead, I’m just a confused person searching for years that I cannot have.

I don’t want to be older. I don’t want to wish my life away. I just want to not have to hide my age. I want to not have to live like how people expect twenty-two-year-olds to live. I want a bed. I want space.

I think it’s the country coming out of me. I dream of water views just to feel like I’m not surrounded by steel. I dream of open lofts with natural light (a rarity here anyways, especially this time of year). When Pickle & I go for walks, we pass people in groves, always paired off. We watch groups party in their apartments or stumble across sidewalks with bottles in their hands and cigarettes between their fingers, laughing and talking about the next football game.

I don’t want to be them. I just don’t want to be this. I wantwantwant. Gross.

No one ever said anything would be easy. Ever. That’s so vague & cliché, but I’m learning it’s more true than I thought. Can I really be a city girl? I think I’m only pretending. I miss my car. I miss the road. I miss not caring if I had a bed or a couch. I’ve taken it all for granted.

I want to be grateful, but it’s hard when I realize that at 567 words (and counting) this blog post already has more words than I’ll ever see in square footage for the next few years.

I don’t want to settle, but I want to settle in. I don’t want to move every year, but the housing market here can’t keep up with itself, causing costs to rise and space to decrease, and there are so many people living on the streets, yet I can’t bring myself to settle for less. This is what I was afraid of when I moved to this city—I am becoming one of them, but something within me is fighting it. I’m glad for the fight, even though it hurts—I don’t want to be disappointed in my good fortune.

So how do I trust that this will all work out? That I won’t be one of those homeless street-sleepers in 30 days time? How do I care for a dog and myself and offer more than prayers for my blood back East? How do I care for the street-sleepers and do something more than just whine about my fortunate yet unsatisfying life?

I think about that a lot with Christianity. We are called to so much: to let go of things of this world and care for people. To love our brothers and give to them. But we are selfish; I am selfish. I want a nice home, a place to feel at home. I want to take care of myself first. Christianity just seems so extreme, and I think we are all failing because if we did it right, the way Jesus says to, we’d all be living on the street helping others along instead of freaking out about square footage and being simultaneaously in and out of the city.

So there is an internal battle going on. I’m not sure who’s winning. Frankly, I can’t bring myself to route for either side.

Tomorrow begins yet another day of endless searching. The apartment of my dreams, which I was set to view at 1:00 was rented out tonight at 8. I’m running out of options. I’m running out of steam, but I’ve never been one to settle. If I were, I wouldn’t be in Seattle; I wouldn’t be a college graduate; I wouldn’t be a seeking Christian; I wouldn’t be twenty-two, living on my own, and praying for the next road to be “right”.

I can’t decide if this experience is humbling, frustrating, or simply revealing my true selfishness. Probably the latter two. The thought of packing up my worldly possessoins again for my third move across town in a year and a half makes my stomach churn. The thought of home creates an unsettling tension between tall trees and tall buildings.

I need people. I’m a people-person, I admit. Yet I cannot bring myself to do this roommate thing again. I’ve been spoiled my whole life by fields, my own room, and a spacious home that my father built. People don’t live like that here—things are provided, not worked for. People seem entitled, not earning to deserve. Finding the old ways feels impossible, but it’s all I long for. Don’t give me your fancy brand-new buildings with a high price tag. Accept me as a transplant who knows what it’s like to hammer a nail into wood and feel accomplished, who is willing to put in the hours to gain the reward of creation, not a paycheck, who cares to the point of insanity, even if there is no resolve, who will not choose to become the typical Seattlelite. I’m a Seattlelite now for sure—I’ve got all the signs of it: a dog, urban life, working for a Redmond-born company—but I’m still a small “town” girl with a heart longing to earn what I get and aspiring to deserve it before I expect it. I realize that at twenty-two, with little life accomplishment, I currently deserve very little.

Maybe this all sounds pretentious. I’m not sure. All I know is that I believe in hard work, manual labor, and the fruits of living off the land, even if those aren’t entirely my way of life at present. Isn’t that how the American Dream got started to begin with? Freedom, independence, hope.

Now faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen. –Hebrews 11:1

Don’t squash my hope again, Seattle. Hope is strong and keeps coming back. I’ve got a lot of hope—in God, for my family, for the future, for happiness.