roads to go

We always walked wherever we needed to go--mainly because the only place we went was to Derek's house, but the notion of "see you in five" has swooped back into my adulthood. I feel twelve again--no car, nowhere important to drive to, yet most of my friends are within a ten minute walk in almost any direction, so when we make plans, it's a simple "see you in five" conversation.

 I have mixed feelings about the whole concept--I love the ability to walk out the door and be with people so soon, yet the thought of living in such a small radius when there is a whole world out there frustrates me.

 Tomorrow, I board a plane for Atlanta. I'm going to a conference for work, and while a few months ago, I was excited--excited by thought of "travelling for work", of visiting a new city, of feeling like I'm "going somewhere", as I procrastinate trip prep, I'm rather saddened by the thought of it all: leaving my dog, leaving my friends, leaving at what always feels like the least convenient time, even though there really isn't anything to hold me back.

 Maybe that's what keeps people living in the same place for years and years or going back to the places they grew up. Are we all just bodies in search of "home"? I recognize that some people were born to travel; they live for seeing the world and never settling down in one place. I thought I could be one of them, but the longer I stay in Seattle, the more it seems I'm supposed to really be here, stay here. I could explore this area for the rest of my life and still not see it all, I think.

And yet, does the notion of "putting down roots" mean anything in a world that is so dynamic, in a market that keeps all residents unsure of where they'll call home for the next year or two?

solitude

A few years ago, I thought I wanted to be with someone, but his answer was no. I know that’s common, but his reason stuck with me, one word: solitude. It took a few minutes to find that word, but when he did, he knew that was it. Solitude. As a generally extroverted person, I didn’t get it. Why would anyone want to be alone?

It’s taken me until recently to understand.

We were on a hike, some friends & me, and as usual, I lagged behind. About six miles in (the tail end of a loop trail), I realized that I didn’t mind hanging back. I soaked in the shade of the Redwoods and breathed in the green. I could see no one ahead of me on the trail, no one behind. With the quiet of the woods around me, I kept going at my pace. To me, hikes aren’t the time for timing to beat a personal best.

After being consumed by the regular chaos of city living, I realized that one moment was what I longed for: to be truly alone. (I admit, it was weird at first to hike without my dog, but honestly, do you know what it feels like to be truly alone?)

Sometimes it’s easy to feel alone when surrounded by people. In the city, you can walk up the street & not talk to anyone (rarely, albeit) and feel like you are the only person alive—the rest of the passersby are part of the surroundings. Have you felt that?

I just wasted about twenty minutes trying to find a single word, but it’s a word that means the realization that every person around you is simultaneously leading their own life with their own emotions, feelings, needs, beliefs. The notion crossed my mind occasionally over the years, but my first memory of it was at a gas station in Utah. It was my biggest solo trip. The man at the pump across from me had deep lines in his face, though he could not have been more than fifty. It suddenly occurred to me that this man had lived 40+ years before this one moment of our lives crossing. Have you ever thought this about your co-workers? Your boss? I think about it at work the most: all of these acquaintances, but we are all human, at our core.

It’s funny to think that we are different. We live off our experiences and become so indulged in our own lives that it’s easy to forget that everyone else’s lives are just as complex. They go to bed at night. They get hungry. They feel sad. Sometimes remembering this is the only way living on the other side of the country from my family makes sense. Life does not stop in Pennsylvania just because I am out here. That’s why it’s always different when I go back; that’s why people call with news: life is still moving, even when I am not there to witness it.

Sometimes the complexity feels like too much. Sometimes I wish it would slow down (how many times have I wished it would go faster?). Sometimes I wish I could go back. But the pace is constant, along with change and intricacy.

I think that’s why we all need moments to be alone. This is my season of understanding solitude.

Solitude can often be confused with prolonged singleness. I’ve mistaken it myself, wondered why I am single, why that person chose to be single. There is a difference. There is a tiny knowing somewhere that solitude is a choice, that even when the opportunity to not be single presents itself, the direction to take is apparent: solitude.

That is where I am. While there are moments of doubting that, there are more reassurances that this is where I am supposed to be. I am grateful to live alone (with the company of my pets).

As I flip through pages of Rilke on solitude in Letters to a Younger Poet, I realize this topic is just beginning. I’ll leave you with these excerpts from Rilke:

“There is only one solitude, and it is vast and not easy to bear and almost everyone has moments when they would happily exchange it for some form of company, be it ever so banal or trivial, for the illusion of some slight correspondence with whoever one happens to come across, however unworthy…But perhaps those are precisely the hours when solitude grows, for its growth is painful like the growth of boys and sad like the beginning of spring. But that must not put you off. What is needed is this, and this alone: solitude, great inner loneliness. Going into oneself and not meeting anyone for hours- that is what one must arrive at. Loneliness of the kind one knew as a child, when the grown-ups went back and forth bound up in things which seemed grave and weighty because they looked so busy, and because one had no idea what they were up to.”

and

“And you must not let yourself be diverted out of your solitude by the fact that something in you wants to escape from it. Precisely this desire, if you use it calmly and judiciously, as a kind of tool, will help you to extend your solitude over a greater expanse of ground. People have tended (with the help of conventions) to resolve everything in the direction of easiness, of the light, and on the lightest side of the light; but it is clear that we must hold to the heavy, the difficult. All living things do this, everything in nature grows & defends itself according to its kind and is a distinct creature from out of its own resources, strives to be so at any cost and in the face of all resistance. We know little, but that we must hold fast to what is difficult is a certainty that will never forsake us. It is good to be alone, for solitude is difficult; that something is difficult should be one more reason to do it. To love is also good, for love is hard. Love between one person and another: that is perhaps the hardest thing it is laid on us to do, the utmost, the ultimate trial and test, the work for which all other work is just preparation. For this reason young people, who are beginners in everything, do not yet know how to love: they must learn. With their whole being, with all their strength, concerted on their solitary, fearful, upward beating hearts, they have to learn to love.”

no more when

As a kid, we would sit at the dinner table as a family. Every night. Our dad would get up for something from the fridge, and my sister and I would whine, “Could you bring over the milk please?”

“What, are your legs broke?” Dad would reply.

“Yes.” Neither of us ever broke a bone growing up (save my arm, but I was so little it doesn’t count). It must have been the milk.

Sounds like tough love, but he always brought it over. He’d hold the bulging gallon over our glasses, “Say when.” “That’s enough!” we’d screech, but he’d keep pouring until we said, “When!!! When!”

The childhood memories are sweet, but I’m done saying “when.” I’ve spent too many of my twenty-two years saying when.

I walk around acting like I’m much older than I am, sweeping into routines, settling into Seattle like it’s where I’ll live out my days. You know what? I have shit that I want to do in my life, and if I’m going to act old, I better get the experience to back it up.

This is what I decided while washing the dishes. I was cleaning up after having people over last night, ladies from church. While I enjoy their company; in groups, I don’t feel close to anyone, making me mostly feel awkward, even as a host. Then why do I do it? Why do I insist on having groups over instead of inviting individuals? There’s a popular list going around on those silly “feed” sites that says “30 things you should stop doing to yourself” or something like that. I perused through it during my morning browse of Facebook while my eyes adjusted to being awake (disgusting, I know). Anyway, one of the items really stood out to me, and it was “stop spending time with the wrong people”. I realized that I do that a lot. I put myself into situations where I am uncomfortable and then consequently whine about it.

I’ve been in such a whirl lately. You know, the usual—who am I, what am I doing here, what does my life mean—kind of thoughts. I’ve finally settled in. I know I keep saying it, but I mean it this time. I feel totally settled into my “new” apartment now that my lease is 1/6 of the way over. I’m so content with my surroundings—I love my place, my furniture, my dog, my city. My my my. I know that life is more than things, but it seems like what we do as careers all drive for the success of things, so what can we do but embrace them?

I’m taking part in this project sort deal. It’s called 100 Happy Days. Every day, I take a photo of something that makes me happy that day, with the goal of slowing down and appreciating life. It didn’t take long for me to notice that many of my images were things—flowers, a new table, the like. So I decided to move my focus away from things. Just this afternoon, I realized that now my photos are essentially just my dog. I love my dog. Very much. But there are more relationships in this world to be had than just with my four-legged furball.

Also while washing the dishes (they’re still waiting to be finished; I just had to stop and write), I was planning all of these words in my head, really getting myself going on this big encouraging shpeal about how I was going to move to Paris with my dog, and everything would be great. No more whens.

I began listing out the whens that I’ve held onto so far:

·      when I pay off my student loans…

·      when I have a car again…

·      when I have more work experience..

·      when I get my Master’s degree…

·      when I get poems published….

·      when I meet a man…

The list keeps going. I started thinking about how I would phrase my France dream without the ‘when’s. I have a pair of friends currently in France for their two-week honeymoon—isn’t that a romantic idea? But it’s not enough for me. I tell myself that I shouldn’t plan out my “live in France for a year” dream because there are so many “if”s: what if I love my career too much? what if I can’t save enough for it? what if I get into grad school? (and the big if…) what if I meet a man? I’ve decided that were I to let a man get in the way of my dreams, I would be cheating myself—this is why I am in Seattle after all—I’m living my own life; I’m not getting caught up in relationships in my new life (not to say I don’t want a boyfriend, I do, but I’m not ready to get married, which to me is pretty much the point of dating, therefore, I don’t—this opinion changes on a daily basis).

Sure dreams change, but you can’t wait for change. I know that I need to try things. I’ve always been one to set my mind on things, make them happen, and I’ve (painfully) learned that if I don’t like it, I can move on to new dreams. Who says you can’t have it all? Seriously. What are those people hoping for? I just want a simple life—simply adventurous, simply joyous, simply free.

Now that I’ve said all that, got my self-pep talk back on, I can confidently tell you, that while washing the dishes, building up my dreams, I suddenly gasped and the exhale was instant tears and that embarrassing loud sob that only comes out when we know we are really alone (aside from the dog who tilts her head and looks on with concern wondering what beast has taken over her friend). But that alone sob—that’s why I was sobbing—I am alone. Alone. No one holds my hand or kisses me goodnight. How did I reach this in my pep talk? (I do prefer to travel alone.) I reached the ultimate “when” of my past: when Derek _________.

Take your pick:

·      when Derek gets better

·      when Derek can walk

·      when Derek graduates college

·      when Derek isn’t doing as well

·      when Derek can’t going out any more

·      when Derek dies

None of my five-year plans included the last one until the summer I was in Italy, and he was so sick, and he died a month after I got home. Of course I hadn’t expected it so soon—five-year plan here. It took me a while to come to terms with that—I had planned a part of my life to start after he was gone. That sounds sick, jaded, disturbed, but I’ve always believed myself to be realist. However, in my realism, I didn’t account for the fact that Derek’s death would entirely shake me to hollow bones and redirect the entire course of any plan I thought I had. I guess that’s the karma there—you think you have plans? No, no, dear.

So this is how I got to be a twenty-two year old single woman sobbing in the kitchen with a plate in my hand. I was beginning to plan out the next ‘when’, and it finally hit me that you can’t base life around the unexpected, like death. Isn’t the whole point to keep going until you stop? If I wait around for everyone else’s lives to stop, I will realize that I never let mine begin. People I love will go away many times in my life, that is certain, but that doesn’t change dreams, only temporary plans.

I love my family. I love my friends. I love all of the people in my life (just maybe not in groups). I know this; they know this (I hope). But I don’t think they know that me wanting to go do my thing does not mean that I don’t want to spend time with them. Maybe this is just my “coming of age” realization (a little delayed), but somehow I’m getting older, and pieces are coming together (and then apart again, or sometimes shuffled) of really, what is happiness to me?

So no more ‘when’s. No more ‘if’s. I’m just going to do it. I have a dream in my mind, and I’m going to aspire toward it until it happens. I know that the plans won’t be the same from day one, but the end goal is until I try it.

“What, are your legs broke?” No, and even if they were, couldn’t stop me; Derek couldn’t walk, and he pushed full-force ahead. Carpe fucking diem. Besides, my desires are now bigger than a glass of milk.

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. 

Adventures in Photos and Phoetry & too much alliteration

I.

It only makes sense that it would rain the whole way back to Seattle.

The whole weekend was beautiful. Warm sun, enough to shade my shoulders pink, reflected cartoon-vibrant color all over.

II.

Of course, it didn’t start that way. It started with a canopy of mist, with fog hanging between the trees like the morning’s ghost as Pickle and me drove through central Oregon around 6am.

III.

And we were on the road.

Open.

Nearly empty.

Ours.

South.

Landscaped whirred, a mile a minute.

We faced the wind.

IV.

For fifteen hours, we drove and drove to match the sun, watching it like a rainbow, arced above our heads.

But the closest we saw, were spurts of leftover color in the sky.

V.

Road-trippin’

the way it should be

Hour after hour

asleep

at the wheel

Taking a new route,

my navigator

failed

VI.

But we made it.

Two sisters

swam in a river

in Saturday’s sun

and the beginning

of summer’s warm

rock beds and air

dry curls.

And meeting

for the first time

VII.

Tent-sleeping

is always warm

when you have a scarf

named Pickle,

but waking up,

choking

under her weight

is almost worth the cold.

VIII.

Home isn’t so far

when every turn

could be East

or West

at the same time.

It is Appalachia

only taller.

IX.

Are we there yet?

She’s a stud.

X.

And just like that,

we’re back to the streets,

the city

sidewalks

sprinkled

with evening rain.