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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.