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.