Sweet Blog of Mine

From the looks of things, it would seem that each of my blogs had a shelf life of six months. My first began as a way to catalog the place I loved and blurred from intent as I ventured forth to a new life elsewhere. My second, spelled out my return to that place.

And now that I am back, I can safely say that this place - this second blog, I mean - has served its purpose. Sometimes we need to spell out an intent: via a dream board, journal entry, spoken word, or internal mantra, all of which can steer us back on course. So, I bid you adieu, sweet blog of mine. My next writing project will be more private but become more public, in time. With that, and all the whilst, I leave you with...

So, the bridge was built.

The ties were cut.

Because, I don't want anything I had before.

(Blessed few: you may recognize a special meaning from this photo.)

So, we build a living room with things we find,
things we have, and find ourselves a new life.

We are

a bit of an inchworm

at times,

King of our castle,

nibbling at the tides.

The Rights of Spring

A bridge would be simple enough and yet it was time for me to go as this one crested and I found myself not caring.

I cared less for that than I did for this, a place where I stood and once pretended that I was in Monterey.

Turns out I didn't need to be in Monterey to smell pine or feel clean by the ocean.

And yet, I still had to cross that bridge, or at least another one - a longer one that I wanted to stop in the middle of, and take a long look at both sides.

But, who can really stop on a bridge? I tried to look over the edge but things moved too quickly.

When I visited Mom, we walked in the morning but were cranky in the wind.

When the day warmed, we walked again in the afternoon.
I stared at blue bottles and realized we were in false spring.

I left late Sunday, already missing the oaks and the green hillsides.
But I realized it was my old life that I missed, as I caught the rhythm of a freedom awakened by a quiet drive down Highway 101.

How long had I been a passenger when I'd thought I was behind the wheel?

To be fair, it's not everyone who can approach a cloud...

... And wish for a three-pronged justice.

Still, I walked by this wall and knew I had come to the wrong place.
(That was September.)

But, I had to celebrate something through those months.

Or we'd all fall down.

Around Christmas, I had lunch downtown but didn't feel much like kissing the man I was with. I wished my mom was coming to the concert with us instead. We'd have sat at a banquette, sipped Earl Grey, not rushed through dessert, and allowed this painting to take us away.

There was always, Venice, I suppose. Venice Boulevard, that is. Though I can't seem to find the glory in that, even if my great-grandmother lived there by herself for thirty years, twisting her waist-length hair into a bun and dusting her face with fine powder before she sat down, fully dressed, for breakfast. She lived alone but there was a sense of ceremony to her self-care. And Venice Boulevard or not, there was a reason why she lived to be 97-years-old:
she was fiercely independent.

So, this journey started last summer, when I packed my books and my things...

... and took a picture of the sky before I left.

Just how does the sky manage to pull us back and right us every time?

Our Place in the Sun

It's amazing what a trip up the coast can do. Don't ever let anyone tell you otherwise.


So, what if I had hundreds of pages of reading, someone else's socks in the hamper, while my overnight bag is surreptitiously stuffed with my own clean ones? (Even if I wished to forgo shoes and socks altogether in favor of tropeziennes which I've yet to pull the trigger on, for reasons other than the weather.)




Oh, but Mom waits for me and my girl with a plate of quartered grilled cheeses on sourdough, salty finger things, and heaping bowls of sliced farmers market fruit. We perch on her leather sofa and sample her spread, trying not to bang our anxious, excited knees on the glass coffee table.

Next, she leads the way to her new neighborhood bakery two doors down. Snuggled in at a table with lattes and hot chocolates, the three of us can only stare at the bakery case: plotting a little too loudly for the flaky croissants tomorrow morning, as we are still too full from a mother's version of elevenses - though technically served at ten-thirty-in-the-AM, a bit of a late start if you consider one detail of family lore in that she has been known to eat leftover Fettuccine Alfredo, with coffee, at 8 AM.

We meander down State Street and make it to Stearn's wharf where I treat them to rainbow sherbet cones, watching them eat with their hearts and feeling a tug in mine as I realize people of all ages eat ice cream the same way.





At the edge of the wharf, a girl with an amped-up ukulele sings nicely and I give her two dollars not because she is great, or even good, but more so because she is not yet like the other tired, dirty street peddlers.

We board the trolley back into town and its automated machine doesn't make change. My mother bristles about losing a quarter, so much that the driver abruptly swings off her seat, her withered hand catching a quarter from the next passenger about to pay. The driver holds it between two fingers and hands it to my mom, who snaps her coin purse closed, insisting loudly, that a quarter still means something in this world.

Sunday morning is warmer and I detect Spring. I'm an optimist but I've had it with winter. I want my toes out, I want those sandals, and I am ready for a change. We watch the turtles at Alice Keck as they slip in and out of the water, sometimes moving only when necessary. They emerge from the water and claw up the side of the bank. I think they're never going to make it but they always do. They find their place in the sun. Sometimes things move so slowly you think it's never going to happen. But it does. Anything worthwhile takes time. And you just have to watch for it.

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!