Hail!

Did I really think I could do it? Move to a tiny hamlet, away from major freeways, big cities, and big-box stores. Become a regular in a so-so cafe with never-ending cups of coffee, swirled with liberal pours from one of these. (Because who can resist an opportunity to unleash cream with a snap of the thumb?)

Would I reflect some evenings about my crazy, busy life before? With the long commutes, endless dishes, wiping away someone else's crumbs on the counter, and moderating discussions between two different families in one household when I still, secretly, couldn't help siding with my own daughter.

After Christmas, we drove to a town that was an-hour-in-and-an-hour-out on a windy, unforgivable road, despite its insolent beauty. A week nestled in the redwoods, living that dream to be away from it all.



I didn't sleep well, even as my bed faced a forest, even with my laptop at home, and no cell phone service (though I don't receive many calls, as it is). A few nights in, we unearthed a Dirty Dancing VHS from the closet, working itself into our nightly routine for two, three - okay I'll admit - four nights in a row. (NB: Up to that point, I'd barely seen it 1 1/2 times in my entire life. Really!) Our evening built up to the last, unabashedly evocative scene whereupon I, equally unabashed, grinned and bopped along with my daughter and really felt my ch'i rise rise at about the, say, 2:54 mark. (There's something about a gang of dancers coming to reclaim their stage.) And it was not until after my daughter was asleep, I realized my time was not quite over. Odd that in the quiet of a Northern Calfiornia forest, the fictional resort of Kellerman's was a soothing parallel to my own discontent. I struggled with sleep because, for reasons to be revealed, I needed to get back and reclaim my own stage.

There may be a time
to be a gray lady
in a turtleneck at the hearth,
pretending the crashing sea
is spellbound by me,
while I recount life,
in all its disconnect and harmony.

Hail to Dorothy!

Miss Identification

It's a New Year and I'd rather not address the old blog. I'm not sure what happened but somehow it turned into what I enjoyed about other people's blogs (aside from my irregular posts) and I began writing for an altogether different reason. A month passed, then another one and by the third month, what can you really say to a handful of readers? I'm sorry? I've been living a life, adjusting to a new home, and doing what I thought I wanted? All the whilst, the truth made me uneasy.

A household is a strange thing.

So, I began putting together a photo essay for the old blog: late summer ratatouille, Sunday morning buttermilk pancakes with berries (and always, always with real maple syrup), risottos, potage parmentier (who did not make that at least once this last fall?), peanut butter cookies, pumpkin carving, and even my various cups of coffee and tea. See? I was busy, in between greedy bites of life, and all of that. But somehow, it felt like having lunch with an old boyfriend, one you might have had some good times with but weren't particularly keen on seeing ever again. What can you say to someone about an old life? It's been great, but see ya?

So, it's raining here. And the 405 was partially flooded enough to stop traffic. It was so odd to head north and not see a single southbound vehicle for a long while. Until this. A Porsche stuck in the opposite carpool lane and a fireman perched on the divide. Kind of like me. Perched on the divide. But, I know which side I'm landing. I've identified it. And the cloud has lifted.

Bonne Année!

Happy leaping!