Return

View of Tahoma from the 8th floor of UW hospital, January 2018

One of the things about the first time going back to visit a former place of residence, especially if a lot of gnarly personal history took place in said locale, is you never know how the encounter will unfold. I suppose that’s true of any travel, but in this particular case I noticed signs of intense anticipation leading up to my departure, and the fact that this occurred without my permission upped the ante. We have ideas, based largely on the past,  about how things might go. Maybe if you meditate every day and you’re really good at it you can slow that down (by maybe 7%?). I have not mastered this formidable art, so I work my magic by anticipating, and then experiencing, while attempting to be as present as possible.  The expected/unexpected combo of life unfolds as it does. I observe the story plucked from the whole, and then welcome it to the family through a ritual of embellishment, until the experience finds its place amongst all the beautiful, varied and sometimes perplexing updates known as memory.

Back in 2021, at the start of my lengthy drive back to Asheville in a rented van packed with plants, booze, and a not yet entirely senior Great Pyrenees, I bid an exhausted farewell to Seattle whilst traversing a dreary vehicular slog, in the rain. Seattle is brimming with competitive capitalism, balanced by splashes of unique geography and determined creativity. It is bold, at times elegant, compelling in its mix of history and newness, and fraught with a very long stretch of gloom that lasts from October through May, sometimes even bitch slapping the optimistic offerings of mid to late June. If you include a context of urban congestion, this combo of drizzly gloom and oppressive parking garage concrete brutalism has a way of giving the finger to a human soul longing for any inkling of bright hope.  On a particularly hard day about half way through my stint as a resident I named this “pouring on the anti-charm” and that vibe was amply on display in late March, as I began my pilgrimage across the pandemic riddled country to start a hopefully hopeful new life. After five agonizing years, I was giving the finger right back, with every ounce of my downtrodden fed upness. “So long, won’t miss this”  in that moment felt like a glimmer of agency, if not yet triumph.

Two years and a bit later, my flight from Charlotte landed at SeaTac just before 11 PM. After threading my way through a crowded gauntlet of rental car pick up maneuvers, it was a notch past midnight by the time I left the airport. At twelve thirty ish I approached downtown Seattle, the midnight sky glimmering with giant bedazzled skeletons of construction cranes decked out in neon, looming over clusters of tall buildings in various states of completion. I was remembering how locals jauntily called this area the Crane Forest, when I found myself suddenly approaching a full throttle bumper to bumper traffic jam. “Hi Seattle” I said outloud, “what a nice welcome” and then I started to laugh. My laughter lifted me out of the past on a magic carpet of healthy detachment, and hearing the sound of my laughter was a wonderful surprise. The sound said, “I am a visitor by choice” no longer being asked to force “home” out of an unworkable fit. I laughed more, and longer, because I was laughing, in joy and relief over the failure of this rude welcome to make a dent in my soul, and I was so giddily amused for such a long stretch that I drove right past the hospital where Bruce died without bracing for the stabbing sensation that so often accompanied a poignant glance at the building, and even without noticing the building at all.

I spent what was left of that first night at a clean and perky Holiday Inn Express in the quiet suburban territory of Bothell.  On the threshold of July 4th weekend, it seemed best to be well north of additional navigation issues when, the following morning, I made my familiar trek to Skagit County. As big box laden suburbs gave way to open sky, and forested rural land appeared in dark velvet green patches, I recalled keenly the sense of breath, space, and beauty this journey invites. In “town” (Mt. Vernon) I had lunch with a handful of single lady Samish Islanders, and I felt so happy, and fortunate, to see them all again.

Travel

Despite what can feel like a test of sanity in the marginally functional mayhem of US airports, my recent travels were relatively smooth. One thing I enjoy about planning travel is that magical moment when the open spaces in my calendar appear to be a mandate for engagement with ALL the EVERYTHING. Then, remembering the way this is secretly a circle that leads to NONE OF ANYTHING, I make an attempt to whittle the agenda down until I see at least a modest reflection of grounded reason.

My husband (and fantastic travel companion) used to help with the editing part. I recall him once asking, “on this trip, can we just stay in one place?" “Yes of course" I said, feeling startled by the uncharacteristic pleading in his voice. On that particular summer vacation, determined to meet this perfectly reasonable request, we went to a nice beach in Delaware, and stayed there, in a clean and modest house, with my tween kids and his immediate family, the entire time. There is a certain quality of ease that comes from repetition and moderate levels of stimulus, and while I loved seeing my beloved enjoying just what he wanted, I became a tiny bit peevish about the absence of privacy that went along with sleeping on a pull out in the living room. I know it was just an ordinary sleeper sofa, but I somehow began to experience it as a set piece in a surrealist play about boundaries. This prompted a quick trip to a nearby big box store where we purchased a small red tent. Sleeping outside soothed the looping nature of my stunned disbelief at how invasive it is possible to be without negative intent, and also added an element of adventure. In the end, it was a lovely time in one place, in part because we had an additional fun place to explore, under a big tree in the back yard.

After my partner in adventure travelled to the great beyond, all the stuff of life became mine to sort. The bills, the trash, the decision making, even the hazy view down that road with an intriguing bend that signifies the future, all mine. Solo travel at first was like a beckoning if untested bridge that I shakily thought might be worth crossing, given the direct span between shared adventures of the past and a hopeful shore that gradually, on its own terms, can become rich with new experience.

This most recent trip out west quickly developed a theme, which could best be summed up as “meaningful time with people I love”. The sub theme was “things I really wanted to do but couldn’t whilst trapped in my house alone, avoiding a deadly virus”.  My itinerary had a few musts: Visiting my eldest son and walking the land that is his new home in Tenino Washington, returning to my former home of Samish Island for the first time since I moved back to Asheville two years ago, catching up with important friends there and in Seattle, going to Stampede with my dear friend Paul in Calgary. Yee Haw.

Portland, and the long coveted quilt show in Sisters Oregon, sadly did not make the cut.With these restraints in place, the plan seemed reasonable enough.Then, about ten days before flying across the country, I added one more irresistible overnight stop in Port Townsend, because… See what I mean? Stay tuned for more, as I share the highlights of this multifaceted summer extravaganza trip.

Sign Right Here

My furry friend, so cute and so astoundingly destructive, has vacated, leaving no trace of corpsey carcass odors under my shed. I am glad for that, because reading about murderous removal options rattled my Buddhist adjacent inner compass nearly out of operational balance. Just as it seemed all less lethal options were doomed to fail, something caused Chompy Von Chompenstein to wave a little white flag. Sonic spikes, maybe? Those may have been worth the money after all, and I am leaving them in place, learning to embrace the noise as worthwhile. My stubborn persistence itself may have been a factor, but the leading candidate for final blow status might be the toilet bowl lozenge I tossed under the shed and then sprayed with ammonia. This putrid chemical reaction was an act of desperation, and perhaps it did the trick. We will never know, as this is not a TV show and thus, there will be no tearful exit interview. Wouldn’t that be great though? I would put even more money in the sweaty upturned palm of Amazon Prime if I could witness a groundhog exit interview!

All but one of the gnawed plants survived, and I have cleaned their rough edges, trimming broken stems, moderating hasty sawtooth haircuts with the neat snip of pruners. Robust evidence of new growth is calming and encouraging. The main salad bar, an area initially intended to host medicinal plants, has now been replanted with a “things groundhogs don’t like to eat” theme. These are wonderfully strong smelling Marigolds, Appalachian Mountain Mint, Lavender, and Hyssop. I replaced the Comfrey with Wild Quinine, which is untested, but promising, and slightly exotic. I also pruned the ten foot tall Pokeweed that I am inviting to grow like a feature plant, and this overall combination of wild natives and tamed cultivars in my yard brings the non purist in me a great feeling of delight.

At this moment, my garden has become a form of primary relationship. True to form, I am investing heavily while expecting uninterrupted goodness in return. I certainly know better than to fall into such a trap. The last five years of my life especially could be considered “know better” boot camp, but like all humans I am prone to losing sight of hard lessons.  To expect destruction to give me a pass is leaning into part foible, part outright arrogance. More misery is added to the mix when I hope that my adaptation to loss will somehow yield rewards, as though enduring life’s insults gives me a favored customer coupon that can be applied as a hedge against more of the same.

I see the error in hindsight, right next to visions of me, fiercely traipsing my garden like Boudica with a super soaker, engaged in raw unselfconscious levels of territorial battle. As my mother-in-law was fond of saying, it is what it is. For this particular moment, a certain victory can be detected as the dust clears, and all is calm. The jungle is nigh, which comes in July, when the mountains of Western North Carolina offer up this beautiful broad rolling topography to an unstoppable force of green. If I am lucky, my garden will be loud with blooms of Zinnia, Rudbeckia, and several shades of Coneflower.

In these last days of June, I will get a few more plants in the ground, and relocate the surviving bits Comfrey down by the street, where it can be up for grabs yet far from permanent shelter, available for some errant nomadic nibbling. Then, I will step back, fall in love once again with the fireflies, and encourage my good fortune to sign a contract with the lush overkill of summer. “It’s a drunk with life situation” the contract may state, “a gregarious mirror to recognize or deny, which also allows for being pragmatic.” Sign right here.

Furry Putin

If you’re ever missing the malignant narcissist you used to love, or feeling altogether frisky in the self-flagellation department, here’s how to attract a ground hog to your garden: Plant a lot of borage, comfrey, brown eyed Susans, sunflowers, and asters.

Then, sit back and let it rip!

Until I find a way to successfully remove Furry Putin, aka Fu^kface, from my yard, most of the newly established garden I have planted, sweating and toiling for months while imagining increased pollinators and future enjoyment, is likely to be fair game. I have acquired hundreds of plants over the past two years, digging holes in the clay, amending the soil, tending them lovingly, and they were beginning to flourish. Now, when I stroll forth with my morning coffee, I observe what looks like the result of a rogue lawn mower having taken a nasty spin through the plant beds. Raggedly gnawed two inch nubs are visually disturbing, but they are at least a form of merciful permission to reestablish growth, probably to ensure ongoing availability of food.

I survey the losses each day, noting which babies have been sacrificed to the hunger games, and remain hopeful that the mint, marigolds, daylillies, penstemon, and hyssop will hold out until Mr. Wildlife Management Specialist returns my call, or even better arrives for humane furry dictator removal.

Meanwhile, the area under my shed has morphed into a foul smelling toxic wasteland strewn with mothballs and Irish Spring soap. The birds, butterflies and bees once attracted to my garden are now largely giving these fumes a pass, and I cannot blame them. Furry Putin, on the other hand, flashed me his Irish Spring tat, or maybe that was his middle finger, whilst chuckling ruthlessly at my attempts to nail him with a super-soaker full of habanero infused ammonia. This has been an embattled week, my friends, and I briefly lost my sense of humor. If you know me at all, you will understand that as a concerning sign, wherein the shape I normally inhabit has been bent out of recognition.

As I plan for the introduction of eight or nine hundred additional marigolds, and wait for the arrival of expensive sonic spikes, I am reminded of mindful methods that assist in remaining unruffled in the face of external challenge. I realize with some sheepishness how small this challenge is compared to so many others faced by intrepid humans, and I am aware of the way all expectations can be a trap, which is perhaps especially true when attempting to curate nature. One can only hope that trap is of the Havahart persuasion, a cage for kind relocation of willful determination to a more realistic and nurturing surround.

As things progress, thus far without resolve, I am grateful for the increasing regulation of my nervous system, which seems organic, but at the same time eerily dependent on my beautiful veggie garden having remained thus far off limits. On the not so far horizon, I believe there is a long term solution. It will possess a deep booming bark, voluminous white fur, soulful eyes, and a protective will forged out of platinum. Currently, imaginary Great Pyrenees (#4) is the baby T-Rex I most likely will fall in love with, despite epic hard work, and a beloved resource it seems increasingly obvious I need to reestablish in this, my one wild and precious life.

Beginning

There is only one first entry,
The first hello, the first handshake, new, and maybe a little shy.

All my life I have loved the moment before choosing,
The wide world of choice so vast it takes your breath away.

I will say “that, I want that” and sometimes the answer is yes,
And sometimes it is not.

The asking itself is a form of freedom, perhaps even privilege,
And I wonder if the greatest privilege of all is self definition.

All my life, once I was old enough to operate within the lines of personality,
I felt that making a choice, a start, a single pointed action
Eliminated other choices, the beginning of new things also the end, removing the open sense of possibility.

This blog will hopefully examine what it is to have a choice,
What it is to make a choice, to observe patterns that obfuscate choice
And, to explore out loud how we choose in the midst of opposing pulls.

So here this is, here I am. Feeling the colors, a dance of variation, and picking this one, for the beginning.