Packing my computer
Well, the time has come. I have to put my computer into a box. It’s become one of my closest friends these last few years, but especially these last few months. I started this blog here at this desk on this computer. Now I need to give it a rest.
We will be loading our truck later this week and for me, writing will have to be on the back burner so to speak. Once we are on the road I will continue adding to this blog from my phone and from my little netbook when there is time. Everything that precedes this post, basically everything that was posted in March, is about preparations. Anything that comes after this post will be the actual adventure. I estimate that it will take another two months for us to get settled somewhere.
Who knows what we will encounter along highway 70? Will we have to hide from any storms when we get to Nebraska or Missouri? Will the Atlantic still be as calm as I remember? What will I miss the most? My daughters, my friends and the fresh clean air, come to mind. But the wheels are in motion. There’s no turning back now, not that I want to.
So, travel along with us if you will. I’ll share what I see, hear, smell, taste and feel as we wander through the middle of this country. I’m not trying to create an award winning blog, or even trying to have lots of followers. I’m just doing what my grandmother suggested and writing it all down. Let the adventure begin! See you on the road…
Two Oceans: A short comparison
Having grown up in the south near the Atlantic Ocean I took for granted its warm and mostly gentle nature. Going to the beach nine months out of the year was common for me and my friends and family. And we wore bathing suits from March through November sometimes. The only time I saw the Atlantic raging like a madwoman was during a hurricane, and there were plenty of those times. I remember riding out the storms in everything from a solid cinder block house to a rickety old trailer that barely held on to the ground with its aluminum posts. It was exciting and, I now know, dangerous, living in hurricane alley. But I have to say I prefer those seasonal storms, with their lusty winds and humid aftermath, to the almost constant cold wind and rain that barrels down from Alaska for most of the year on the Northwest Coast. Sometimes it feels like there is a hurricane season here, but it lasts for three seasons instead of one.
The Pacific Ocean seems to be angry most of the time. Mostly, it is cold and unpredictable. Only brave surfers dare to go into the water past their knees, and a wet suit is required. The Pacific Ocean never seems to rest, always moving, churning, wearing away at anything in its path. Although…it is an awesome sight, sitting on the edge of a cliff watching those monster waves pounding on house sized rock islands, shooting their spray up a hundred feet or so, and breaking off pieces of rock to tumble on the bottom. Instead of shells, the NorthwestCoast mostly has rocks on its shores. If you sit down and look closely at these crunchy piles, you will see a garden of delight, an orchestra of color, all in the shapes of rocks. Over the years we collected a few pounds of beach rocks which we put into our rock tumbler and then into mason jars for some later projects. People make all kinds of things with rocks around here.
But the real gems are the agates. They are made from some sort of ancient volcanic ooze that flowed down the “wild” rivers nearby about a thousand years ago, and can be any color from clear to yellow to bright orange to blue. You know you have an agate when you hold it up to the sky and you can see through it. There are lots of agate wannabes though, and many a newcomer has walked away with pockets filled with common rocks instead of the treasured agates they thought they had. Hunting for agates entertained us for a good three years. But we found out that we were part of a dying breed. The agates are much smaller now than they were just ten years ago, and it seems that the tourists have “taken them all” anyway, according to a local woman. Eventually I decided I didn’t need that many agates and stopped collecting them. Plus it made my neck hurt, bending over for hours at a time. This was also around the time when I realized it would never be warm down there on the edge of the Pacific Ocean.
A bit more rewarding than agates, in my opinion, are the sunsets. When it’s not overcast or raining and you get the chance to see them, they are almost always spectacular. And you can watch from inside your car if you want. The Pacific sunsets are at their best during the season changes. I’ve always been a sky watcher, but even more so here, since the sky is so dramatic. Sometimes in the evening I make it down to the ocean to take a picture and sometimes it takes me by surprise and I simply stop what I’m doing and just sit and stare with my mouth open. Either way, it’s magical. The sunsets and the agates are two things I will remember fondly.
Well, there is also the driftwood. So much wood washes up onto the beach in the winter storms that people come by in pickup trucks and fill their empty truck beds with free, wet firewood. Some people even bring chainsaws. I guess nature provides in all sorts of ways, and opportunists never miss a beat. I personally have never brought driftwood home to burn; it’s too pretty for that. But I have gathered my share of smaller pieces to make into primitive art or to lie in my flower beds or on the porch as a decoration. I’d like to bring some of it with me to the East Coast but I think it would be sacrilegious. Of course, the East Coast has driftwood, just not as much.
The point I’m making is that going to the beach is very different here. Jackets, and sometimes raincoats, are required. Shoes are also necessary, for me at least. When I leave the beach here my cheeks are red, not with sunburn, but with cold. I still have to catch my breath from all the beauty when I sit there for a while, but it seems I am almost always shivering. One young woman told me that having an “arsenal of jackets” was the best way to get along here. She was right. My jacket section of my closet takes up almost as much space as my shirt section. It’s also good to have a few pairs of boots. Save the flip flops for Southern California or the Central Valley, or the Southeast.
*****
When we first moved up here to the far west corner of “sunny” California, I was ready for the lack of heat and ultraviolet rays; at least I thought I was. The summer we moved here I had just been diagnosed with melanoma and had developed a fear, no, I guess it was a phobia, of sunshine. I had the pea-sized cancer removed and made a commitment to heal myself from the inside with healthy food and healthy thoughts, while protecting the outside, my skin, from the sun’s “harmful” rays. Living up here, with the tall trees and all the moisture they require made that last part easy. Seven years ago, as we drove through the dense fog in the middle of July in our last U-Haul, I knew that getting a sunburn was not going to be a problem. I’ve only used sunscreen three times since we’ve lived here—all three times were when I was working in my yard—not on the beach.
Still, with all this lack of worry about my delicate skin, I miss the warm Atlantic. I long to go there when it’s still spring time and there’s no danger of too much sun, and ride the waves like I did when I was growing up. I have never worn a bathing suit tothe beach here, or even shorts for that matter. I have never put more than my two feet into the water of thePacific Oceanand have always brought a hoodie with me. It’s a different reality, going to the beach these days, but I know that thePacific Ocean has given me what it could. Now it’s time for me to begin the next chapter of my life near its sister.
So, I will capture as many sunsets over the Pacific Ocean as I can between now and the time we drive away. Then, when I feel settled on the other side of the country, I will get up early, before the sun, and go down to the beach to welcome him to his new day. I will ask him to be kind to my skin and to shine through the clouds and fog when he arrives here in Northern California three hours later. And I will appreciate the simplicity of that yellow-orange ball of fire slipping up over the flat eastern horizon. No parade of storms. No “cool” rocks. Very little driftwood. No agates to hoard. Just the sand and the water and the thin line of horizon showcasing the changing light. I will welcome the day in silence and awe, knowing that someone over here on this opposite coast will watch as this same sun slides down over the rough and choppy Pacific waters with as much bling and audacity as it can muster…assuming there is no cloud cover. I will have my memories of these sunsets and that will suffice.
Leaving the nest
With many tears and some uncertainty, I am leaving my two daughters, Jennifer and Rebecca, here on the west coast. Although they both began their lives on the east coast, they became the beautiful women they are here in California. To them, this is home, this small country of a state, with all its freeways and shopping centers, and state parks, and choices of lifestyle, and all its beauty and diversity. California is a good place to grow up and a good place to live. I am glad we chose to move here 21 years ago. They have learned more than I could have ever taught them. They’ve taken the best of what California has to offer and are living their own dreams.
Jennifer is turning 34 and Rebecca was 28 last December, old enough to be on their own. Yet it is me who is leaving. This is such an irony since we have grown so close in the past few years, but maybe that is the good news. What better time to say farewell for now? I know I will come back now and then, and I know they will come to visit me wherever I land.
Even though they have both been “out of the house” for over ten years, I am just now feeling the vastness of the empty nest. My heart is full though, full of pride, full of memories, and full of gratitude to be their mother. I love you both, Jennifer and Rebecca. My door is always open to you—the door to my house, and to my heart.
Clearing out the junk to get to the bottom of the trunk
I’m trying not to blog every day, just yet, but sometimes I can’t help myself.
This post isn’t about packing or moving or anything like that. It is about writing. These past few months writing has become my mental yoga. It gives me a sense of balance and authority over my own life. When you get down to it, sometimes I just need to write. Usually, I don’t really have anything important to say, but I just need to purge a little. I ramble and roam, describe what I see or feel, what I dreamed about or where my body aches, and I often feel like I’m wasting my time, but suddenly there’s a thought, or a collection of words, or an image, and I’m off to the races.
It’s kind of like all those senseless dreams we have, where we’re lost in an old house, or the dogs are flying out the window, or we’re driving the car backwards without brakes. These dreams are necessary and clear the way for the real, meaningful, life changing ones. Dreaming and mindless writing work that way.
How to pack like a Virgo
There’s an art to packing. It’s like putting a 3D puzzle together. First you have to find the right box for the right stuff. Then you have to test it out and see if the stuff will actually fit and if there’s space left over you have to find something that “goes with” the contents. You wouldn’t want to put bathroom supplies in with office paper, or cookbooks in with fabric. Well, at least I wouldn’t.
Sorting, sifting and packing boxes
For the past week or so I have been sifting, sorting and packing my personal stuff, including yarn, beads, books, little Buddha statues and old journals. But mostly it’s been art supplies. I have a lot of these. Probably more than I will ever use. But I can’t let them go just yet. I guess this is my grandmother speaking to me again, “You may need them one day.”
Note to self: With sorting comes a level of chaos. Yesterday I dropped a huge box of magazine images, all over the floor. I almost cried. Magazine pages slip and slide around like they’re oiled or something. Well, this wasn’t just full page images that could be gathered up and stacked back into their little cardboard caves, there were all sorts of sizes and shapes, and every one of them looked like something I might use in a collage one day. So, I took a deep breath, and even though my neck and shoulders were already hurting from sitting on the floor for two hours, I made the executive decision to organize this pile of shapes, colors, images and potential. It took another hour and a half.
At one point, my little dog came running in and landed in the middle of it all. Sigh. I continued, determined to finish. Finally, as my belly was starting to grumble along with my neck and shoulders, I reached the bottom of the stack of unruly pictures. I found three perfect boxes, one each for the small, medium and large pieces, put them in, labeled each box, taped them up and added them to the pile of other potential art projects. Did someone say that art is 99% perspiration and 1% inspiration? I think this is what they meant.
What if?
I realized this morning as I was planning what to pack today that this is only the beginning of a very long process. Once we reach our final destination we will have to un-pack, and that could take years. The big picture looks fine, take a big U-Haul to the east coast, put stuff in storage, come back, clean up any messes we left, get into the RV and take our time traveling across the country, landing somewhere near the water. Then what? Then we will have to start looking for jobs and a place to live. What is the job market like out there? What kind of houses will we find? Will there be mold and ugly paint colors to deal with? Do people still smoke in public places in the south? What about the weather? The area we are driving through is still in the midst of a record making tornado season. Will that be over in the next few months? How long will the money last? I could go on for about an hour, but the point is that “the dream” came very close to a nightmare in my imagination this morning. And it all started with packing boxes.
So, this is a good time for me to practice what I’ve been preaching for the past six or seven years. I will stay present, feeling these emotions, acknowledging these fears, but not letting them paralyze me. I will pack boxes today, and I will sort through more relics from the past, and my shoulders and neck will hurt and my mind will be tired, but I will be one step closer to the next step. The sky will be cloudy, the wind will continue to whip through the trees on three sides of our house, and tonight we will sit on the couch and watch tv for a couple of hours before going to bed. Life isn’t about what you do or what you have or where you live; it is about perspective. Today I’ll choose to look at the small picture and let the big picture unfold in its own time.
What I’m leaving behind: Tall Trees
This morning I woke up at 5:00 to the sound of dog tags rattling next to me. I knew it wasn’t Buddy. He is always in his bed like a good little boy should be. Belle and Buster were both on the bed, Buster lying peacefully like a 30 pound rock at my feet, and Belle scratching herself relentlessly right next to my ear. This is her way of getting us up in the morning. I ignored her for a few minutes, well, maybe an hour, then I decided she wasn’t going to stop, so I got up. We went out into the back yard in the semi-darkness and as my three canine companions wandered around their familiar territory, I sat on the concrete step, listening, seeing and smelling the freshness of the day.
What I heard was the lively sound of one little bird serenading the whole neighborhood with her happy little song. She was the queen of the morning sitting on top of a hundred foot spruce tree in my neighbor’s yard. These trees were obviously planted as a natural fence between properties, but this little bird knew no boundaries. She was confidently belting out her tunes as if she expected everyone to stop what they were doing and listen only to her. I stopped, and listened, and marveled at her clarity and enthusiasm.
I took a couple of deep breaths and smelled the freshly cut grass, mixed with the scents of ocean air and tree sap, and felt a slightly cool breeze on my skin. I looked up at those trees that must have grown twenty feet since we’ve been here and realized that I will miss them. They have provided a backdrop to our lives these past seven years, always there, standing, watching, sifting the air. When the Pacific Northwest is pounded by winter storms, these trees swing and sway like they’re in a group exercise class. If you listen closely, you can hear them singing their soft nature song as the wind whips through their branches. None of them has ever cracked or broken. They are strong and safe. And even though they block the morning sun, and drop their cones all over the ground and their needles into our hot tub, I will miss them.
*****
Our house is surrounded on three sides by tall trees. A majestic stand of hundred year old redwoods on the north side reminds us that this once was a redwood forest with a raging river flowing through it. It is a magical place in our yard that I had big plans for. I could see fairies flitting about in my child’s mind. I imagined azaleas and fuchsias growing in the empty trunk of one tree, and ferns scattered all around the base. I thought I might put a little table and chair out there, but never did. So, it is still pristine and natural with no interference from human hands.
On the south side of our house, a military style line of cypress trees has given us the privacy we needed from our grumpy neighbor. There are usually a couple of cats hanging out in this mini forest, waiting for a baby bird to fall from its nest, or just waiting to pounce on a bug or another cat. The neighbor trims the lower branches every year in order to avoid sprouting new cypress trees, but still we can only see each other’s legs passing by now and then. These trees are also about a hundred feet tall and block the sun for most of the year. A mixed blessing I guess considering that we’d prefer the privacy over the sun.
And then there are the dozen or so spruce trees that I was communing with early this morning. Situated in a semi-circle at the perimeter of our back yard, they form a natural barrier between us and our other neighbors. Because there is also a man-made fence to protect them, our dogs love to go back to that area and taunt the neighbor’s two large Labradors. Our three little Shitzus run back and forth on our side, yapping away, while the two identical black Labs simply stand there staring down at these little balls of fury, looking baffled. It’s a dog thing that I will never understand. Sometimes I try to make them stop and learn some social skills, but it doesn’t seem to stick, so recently I have just let them have at it.
The black dogs weren’t out this morning. I guess it was too early, so my three little guard dogs wandered around peacefully sniffing all the familiar blades of grass and peeing wherever they wanted to. As I got up to come back into the house, I knew a storm was coming. I can always feel it in my face and in my bones. It’s an achy, pounding pressure that is only relieved when the sky is finished dumping its contents on the ground below. This relentless moisture is the reason we have all these tall trees around here. They thrive in the dampness and don’t need much sun to survive. So, I looked up at the stillness in the upper branches, and listened to the continuing birdsong, and breathed in the fresh, salty Pacific air, and soaked in the ambiance of the morning. I said a silent goodbye to the trees and to the musician in their branches, and hoped I would remember to do this again before we leave.
on the road to simplicity 