Texas in Late December

"They were beckoning mountains with a brown grass love."

John Steinbeck, East of Eden

A few weeks ago, before the fervor of the holidays, I set out on a day trip to Enchanted Rock, in a car with 4 guys and a dog.  They were going rock climbing, and I was armed with 2 sandwiches, an apple, a cookie, trail mix, some raisins, and a book.  We headed out of Austin early in the morning, drinking coffee out of a thermos, listening to the radio as we drove through Bee Caves, towards Llano, down hill country roads until we reached our destination. Enchanted Rock is a Texas State Park, the main feature of which is a granite dome that rises 425 feet into the air.  There is a smaller dome, too, between which are boulders to scramble over, scrub trees, desert cactus and flowers, a creek and lovely green trees.  There is ample rock climbing at the park, a cave to go spelunking in, and trails to stretch your legs on.

  

It is the most beautiful and sacred place in the Hill Country that I have seen.  I first visited in the late summer when the heat was brutal on top of the dome, and we were most concerned with keeping the dog hydrated, while we explored the rock for an afternoon.  This trip was calmer, my dog was at home asleep, our companion dog a veteran rock climber, who patiently waited for the boys to throw sticks in between routes.

It was sunny and warm, there was a breeze, and everything around us whispered in sunlight and dust. In the grocery store I had seen headlines and front page stories detailing other people’s grief, and I did my best to pass them up, trying to keep from sensationalizing their loss.  Being here, on the closest thing to a mountain you can find in Central Texas, was akin to breathing a great sigh of relief.  Once the boys were situated, I scooted back down the trail to an outhouse and reveled in the simple pleasure of evacuating outside. I also found time to take an artsy picture of some toilet paper. Enjoy.

After I dropped anchor I went and found an old oak tree that was creaking in the wind, and wrote in my journal, glad that no one knew where I was for a few minutes.  I walked along the creek, past fields of grass, trained my camera on desert plants bathed in sunlight that filtered through the trees, and climbed back up the trail to the rock, where I promptly fell asleep on my pile of sweatshirts and jackets.  I woke and ate a sandwich, read my book, and just stared out into the landscape. From higher up, we could see the contours of the land, the hills off in the distance, the clouds moving softly through the afternoon. 

I felt the same kind of reverent peace that I have felt before in the mountains, or on a pile of driftwood logs by the ocean, or walking into a clearing in the forest.  There is room for everything- for our grief, our uncertainty, our sweet sadness and our silence. I thought back to other backpacking and day trips I've taken that I still remember- singing songs to darkened hills, boxed wine shared with friends, thunderstorms and card games in a tent, a sky heavy and ripe with stars.  This is the joy of the wilderness.

I missed the mountains of my home, towering Cascades with alpine lakes and fields of wildflowers, shedding their raincoats in late summer for folks to walk through their foothills and up their beautiful ridges.  But also, I loved Texas in that moment.

Inevitably, the sun began to sink, and we trekked back across the boulders, ready to hunt down a dinner of hamburgers and milkshakes when we got back to town.  Some days are laced with magic, other days never make it out of pajamas, and sometimes we get lucky- a sunny day spent on enchanted rocks, Texas in late December. 

            

A History of Stuffed Animals

My first animal was a brown bear with yellow eyes. I think I got him as a baby, and I loved him and hugged him so much that now he is flat. He was the bear I needed when life was rough- if it was a scary night, or a sad night, he was the bear for me.

I once threw up on him inside of my purple Briarcrest book bag, on the bus on the way to school.  The gross part was that I think I must have stashed the bag in a corner of the classroom, barfy bear and all, until my Dad came to pick me up.  It is worth mentioning that the reason I barfed is that I was getting anxious about going to school, and would get myself so worked up I would refuse to ride the bus, or feel sick for the entire ride. My Mom got me stress workbooks to give me ideas for how to breath and relax, and I would sit on the porch holding a waffle in one hand, the book in the other, trying not to freak out.  In truth it was a new school, I did not like that it was different, and I wanted to go back to second grade because that was the best year of my life. (That might still be true.) Eventually we made a deal, that I would ride the hateful bus if my Dad would come get me.

In elementary school our goofy family dog chewed the brown bear's ear off (and ruined a few pairs of my pants and numerous socks.)  Side note: the dog's name was Dusty but Bubby's husband, Ben, would always call him the wrong name. He would sit on the couch and grumble, "Musty, rusty, lusty . . . come here." Then he would scratch the dogs curly red ears and look happy.

I also had a scary baby doll with eyes that rolled around and matted brown hair.  When Shelley was born I got a cabbage patch doll, which I thought was a good trade at the time. (I was 3.)

Whenever we would come home from trips, the FIRST thing I would do would be to rush to my room, line up all my animals (and one big raggedy ann doll) and tell them all about my trip and ask them how they were.  If you question this, there is photo proof.

Other animals I remember: a big green turtle, a monkey puppet with long legs and arms and a rubber mouth, an elephant wearing overalls, a pig, and a long purple caterpillar with lots of little legs, each of which had a colorful sneaker, too.

But my favorites were the bears and the dogs.

There was a white dog that Uncle Bill got me at Tree Top Toys in Edmonds, after we went and ate fish and chips and oysters and played with seaweed on the beach.

There were bears of all sizes, shapes, and colors.  A world of dogs and bears!

The first thing I ever remember buying was a stuffed animal.  It was a Turtle Tot- A little turtle with a soft shell that came on and off. I bought it at Fred Meyer with my allowance, and Mom, you are a saintly mother for sitting with me for the forty five minutes it probably took me to make a decision about what color Turtle Tot I wanted.  But my god, I remember how excited I felt as I carried my soft baby turtle out to the station wagon in my plastic Fred Meyer bag- it was in a pretty box, and it smelled so new, and it was all mine.  Buying things when you are grown up will rarely be as exciting as buying a Turtle Tot when you are seven.

My Dad was the stuffed animal aficionado in the family.  Raised in Brooklyn, his Dad worked in a pharmacy and used to bring him home little collectible bears, which Bubby sadly gave away once he moved out of the apartment to wander the pot glazed streets of San Francisco.

My Dad taught me that picking out stuffed animals takes time, and patience.  In our favorite toy store, Tree Top Toys, we would spend quality time at the wall of stuffed animals, studying the dogs and bears to make sure we found the little guys with the best, happiest faces.

The penultimate stuffed animal was the big panda that I longed for for years.  He was so beautiful, with a big buddha panda belly, wise dark eyes, and a soft leather nose.  His paws were brown, and he was the perfect size for hugging.  I finally got him, circuitously, when I fell off my bike in 6th grade and fractured both my wrists, chipped my front tooth halfway off, and got a big fat lip.  I think Bubby got him for me as a get well present- and when I chose him in the store I must have looked heart-warmingly pathetic- carrying him out to the car with my arms straight out because of the two casts, fat lip and all.

That panda bear came with me to college, and almost burned down our rental house when his ass got pressed up against a heater.  He still has a big brown streak like a shit stain on his panda bottom.

At christmas, my favorite present was always the softest one, and I would wait until the very end to open up the package that hopefully contained my new friend.

I was at Ikea about a month ago, and found myself in a flashback scene, holding up an elephant and a seal and trying to decide which one I liked more.  I think I even put my head on the them both, to test for comfort and pillow potential.

The point of the story is this: yesterday Steven asked me what I wanted for Christmas, and although I should have listed things like snow hats or a bottle of good whiskey, I found myself wanting to say the thing I should have probably grown out of by now.

God bless the bears and dogs, every one.

Also, if you wanted to know, each and every stuffed animal I described still lives at my parents house. (PLEASE don't send them all to Texas, I promise to take them one day when I have a bigger house!)

We all have our favorite things, and this happens to be mine.

Happy Holidays, y'all.

Dumpster Diving Dreams

I've started baking bread.  A sack of flour costs $3 dollars, and it turns out to make rosemary foccacia you just need water and olive oil, a pinch of salt and sugar, one of those little yellow yeast packets, and some rosemary sprigs lifted out of your neighbor's garden.

I made my first foray into the yeasty wilds of bread making last sunday, following the trail of words left by Deborah Madison in her book, Vegetarian Cooking for Everyone.  I found that book for $5 at the used bookstore, and it is heavy like a bible.  I decided on rosemary bread because that was my favorite bread to get out of the dumpster in back of Essential Bakery in Wallingford, before they moved their production to South Seattle, thus cutting off much of the city's supply of delicious day old loaves.

On a side note, one of the things I loved about the Essential Bakery dumpster was that it brought people together.  My roommates dumpster dove.  My cousins from Virginia dumpster dove.  So did my neighbors, and my Mom.  Once I went there to stock up and there was a couple who had just cleaned out the Naked Juice dumpster, so we exchanged goods and headed to our respective homes to feast on pecan and raisin loaves and orange juice.

We would keep the loaves in the freezer, and heat them up in the oven whenever we needed some for dinner, sandwiches, or toast in the morning.  It fed so many people, and I frequented the bakery more and bought sandwiches inside to thank them for the sweet bounty they threw out.

Since I don't have a bread dumpster at my disposal here in Austin, I decided it was time to recreate the rosemary bread that I had loved so much.

In addition to bread I've been cooking other things too, dishes like pot roast and potato leek soup, apple cake and pumpkin pies, chocolate chip pumpkin bread and our family recipe for chili.

All of this food is nourishing for me in a soulful kind of way. And something about bread in particular, is so fun to make.  The mixing and the kneading and the magical rising, and the smells that fill house.   And, you can throw so many things in bread- like cheese and nuts and pumpkins! As much as a I love snacks such as carrot sticks, they are no match for a hunk of fresh baked bread with butter.

If you were wondering about the rosemary foccacia, it turned out splendidly.  Next time I may throw in a  handful of olives, or some roasted garlic and gorgonzola.

My friend came over, and we had a big salad for dinner, with thick slices warmed up in the oven, covered with goat cheese and honey.  It was paradise.

On another note- speaking of cheap and easy, yesterday I went to the neighborhood cafe down the street to get a hamburger.  When the girl asked for my name, I said, "Lindsey."

She looked at me and said, "Easy?"

"No," I said, "LINDSEY."

Now, why in the hell would someone's name be "Easy?" I think the appropriate thing to say is "Sorry, didn't catch your name. Could you say that again?"

Alas, I get called "easy" by an east austin hipster wearing coveralls and a bowl cut. So bizarre.

It reminded me though, that some things in life, like making bread, can be just that- easy.  Sometimes we underestimate the creative and nourishing payoff of things like long walks, reading, mending torn clothes, or spending the afternoon making Challah.  And when our pocketbooks are feeling threadbare, things like $3 sacks of flour present a world of possibility.

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Hipsters Use Side Door

My friend from college came to visit.  We lived in an old house in Bellingham when we were 19.  There were five girls, and lots of drama, and 80's dance parties, and lots of stir fry and potlucks where everybody brought chips, and always some random hippie guy sleeping on the couch. The funniest part is that half the time, no one actually knew who the guy on the couch was. He was a friend of a friend on a trail crew, or a traveling bluegrass busker, or some guy a roommate had met at the grocery store on Vashon island. I remember how one of my roommates was vegan at the time, and I use to sneak downstairs at night and eat hot dogs with the other redhead who lived the house.  Red head hot dog.

My friend taught me how to salsa dance, and when she made peanut butter toast there was always, inexplicably, jam on the cabinets.  Once for Halloween she dressed up like a piece of poop, put hershey  chocolate on her lips, and made out with a drunken pirate around a campfire.

Our lives in past nine years have diverged wildly- living in different cities, traveling different countries, and spending many years apart.

Three summers ago she took me and another one of our old college roommates on a fantastic road trip through the mountains of New Mexico, and we drank tequila and met an older Native American couple who sold us a beautiful small pot and gave us pieces of homemade cherry pie, and we ate them in the car and got weepy thinking about our grandmothers.

So, a few weeks ago my friend landed in Austin, here for a break from midwifery school, and after she met Guthrie and gave him lots of treats and pets we sat on the porch and drank whiskey together.  We went to the bar down the road, and ate free popcorn, and marveled at how the time had passed.

We had a fabulous visit, full of adventure.  That first night we hopped on our bikes around midnight in order to catch the last half of a late night Sean Hayes concert in downtown Austin, in the upstairs of a fancy BBQ restaurant. It was perfect.

On the day before she left, we loaded two canoes onto the top of Steven's truck and drove with his twin brother down to San Marcos, where we spent the day paddling 9 miles down the river.  She loved it- we drank beers, though we lost the good IPA when one of the boats flipped.  We saw the turtles, and the pretty trees, and at the end of the day Steven found a t-shirt that said, "If you're gonna smoke, smoke salmon."

We had dinner that night at a BBQ restaurant in Austin called Green Mesquite. The walls were covered in funny posters and quippy bumper stickers.  We had plates loaded with potato salad, brisket, and sausage, and there was pecan pie with blue bell ice cream for desert.  Above the doorway was a old "hippies use side door," sign, but they had replaced the last half of the first word, exchanging "pies" for "sters".  A sign of the times.

When my friend left I felt sad- that little hollow lonely space that rings when you leave the company of a good friend.  The truth is that not all of us ladies who lived together in that old blue house on the hill are still close, but we shared such a particular moment together, and saw one another through so much.

Being in a new city, it was such a blessing to have someone stay with me who knows me in such a tender, funny, increasingly profound way. When my friend met me, my idea of cooking was making pasta and eating it with bread, and the one time I tried to saute garlic I burned the ever loving shit out of it.  Now I can make things like pot roast and apple cake and potato leek soup, and now she is learning to catch babies and I am far away from my childhood home.  This little piece of writing goes out to her- to our old friends, our lasting memories, to those folks in our lives who never will be asked to use the side door.

Fire Ants and Monsters

A few days ago I woke up in an antihistamine haze, my ankle swollen and covered with bites that came to a little pus filled peak.  Gross, right?  This, my friend, is the curse of the mother f-ing Texas fire ant. 

They look innocuous enough, cute little ants carrying leaves to their cute little fire ant mountain, but once they touch you the devil awaits.  They actually sting, not just bite, and I imagine them pulling out little poisoned cutlasses and stabbing my ankle while they howl maniacally with fire ant laughter.

I've had two runs ins with them, and it hasn't been pretty.  I tried to read up online for some suggested home remedies, but I only came up with things like "dip your leg in worcestershire sauce", and "squeeze lime on it."  These things did not work.  So, I finally wised up and dosed myself good and proper with some over the counter Benadryl, and disappeared into crazy dreams for few nights until the swelling finally stopped.

This post was not actually supposed to be about fire ants.  

It is about Dick's hamburgers and muffin tops and bike boxes and stolen beer and monsters in overalls and finding jobs and chocolate pancakes and the in-between. 

I went to Seattle, and it was glorious.  My sister Shelley and I tried to go to Eastern Washington, but we were thwarted by wildfires.  It was her birthday, so we went to the outlet mall where she got a cool watch and I got some tight jeans.  When I bought them they guy in the store said, "remember- muffin top now prevents diaper butt later."  A few years ago when I worked in a Kindergarten class, one of the little boys walked up to me and said "Cutie. You're a cutie." Then he pointed at my belly area and said, "Is there a baby in there?", and I said, "No Matt, I just eat emotionally sometimes." Ok, I didn't say the last thing, but I sure as hell thought it. Point being, the damn pants are still too tight, but really, who gives a shit!

After shopping we ate hamburgers in the back of her volvo station wagon, then we drove around with the windows down, listening to music with the sky so perfect above us.  My Dad made dinner that night- there was grilled salmon, and a roasted bell pepper salad with feta in it that is my sister's favorite.

The retirement party for my Dad was a resounding success.  Gumbo and beer were consumed in large quantities, the kids loved the bonfire, and my Mom gave a speech standing on a chair that brought the house down. In it, she talked about my Dad's 30+ years of work- the shitty bosses, the long hours, the trials of 30+ years of marriage, their beautiful daughters, and what Mark (my Dad) provided for us.  She said, so eloquently, that it wasn't just food and clothing and financial stability that my Dad gave to his family.  He gave us a safe harbor, one that was constant and loving and always there.  

I had a great time drinking gin cocktails with my Dad, going through his book collection, and listening to him play guitar for hours on end. 

My youngest sister came back from Virginia for the party, got herself an adorable haircut and cooked up a storm.

It was nice to have everyone home, and I think we all felt a deep tug of sadness when 2 out of 3 girls headed thousands of miles away again. It's a hard balance- I wouldn't trade these Texas sized adventures for a rainy Seattle life, but I am acutely aware of what I love there, and where my home will always be, in one way or another.

I got to spend some quality time with some of my close friends, though there were many pals (and a few babies) I didn't get to see.  It was nice to eat soup and piroshky and walk around Pike Place drinking strong cups of coffee.  Amber I laid around Greenlake and Caitlin and I laid around my parents house and Kyle and I drank semi-stolen beer (it's a long story involving the self-check line in the grocery store) on the beach in Edmonds, sitting on big driftwood logs.  There were mint juleps with Colleen and Melissa at the new whiskey bar in Ballard, and walking through the farmers market on another perfect indian summer day.  I wish I had time see everyone I love in Washington- I hope I get to hug you next time I come home for a visit, and if you have a baby I want to hug them too.  This is true.

While I was home I also read "The Hunger Games," and I talked to my Mom a lot, and I took naps even though it was blazingly sunny outside. I packed up my old road bike in a giant cardboard box (thanks Kyle!) and shoved as many sweaters as I could into the extra space.  

I came back to Austin, to Steven and Guthrie the dog, and we were all very happy to see one another.

When I was in Seattle I started checking Craigslist for jobs back in Austin, and came across an ad for a host position at a restaurant about 4 blocks from my house.  I took my resume in the next day, interviewed a few days later, and was offered the job at the end of the week.

The restaurant is called Eastside Cafe- it's something of an institution in Austin, an old converted house which serves up casual and high end fare, with a beautiful garden in back of the restaurant. It opened when I was 5 years old, and is still going strong.

The serendipity of this is not lost on me.  I was very lucky to get a job, in fact the first and only job I applied for.  

The universe cut me a break on this one, and I am relieved that I listened to my gut and made a big change by quitting my job at the little grocery store.  It all worked out just fine, and for that I am extremely grateful.

I am trying to view this process of throwing myself back into uncertainty with a mix of trust, gentleness, and curiosity.  There were a number of times I felt panicked and sad this past month, even though friends and parents reminded me that finding a job has traditionally been easy for me, and I always manage to land on my feet.

The lurking sense that things "will not be okay," is a kind of catastrophic thinking that accompanies moments of transition for the anxious mind.  Too much possibility equals a feeling of being unmoored, and an overactive mind so easily counters one's trust in the ability to make choices and roll with the results, whatever they may be.

I am starting to view my anxiety as a Jim Henson style monster, no doubt influenced by being a disciple of Sesame Street from the ages of two to nine.  My monster is 6 foot 4, with faded overalls and oversized, overbite fangs.  He has shaggy brown and blond fur, and sad eyes, and he is very chubby.  He eats a lot of hot dogs and he gets really weepy and he just wants to stay inside.

I went on a 3 and 1/2 mile run with Steven and the dog the other day, and when we were running up a hill I was thinking about this monster anxiety guy.  I thought if I ran away from him he would leave, but instead he howled louder.  So, I let him run with me up the hill, and I was gentle with him, and that quieted him down and tired him out.

I love this idea- instead of making the anxiety monster sit outside in the rain on the curb when you go into the bar, just invite him in and buy him a beer.  Then you may both realize there was nothing to worry about.

This is the way it is with our monsters- we will live with them our whole lives, so instead of trying to eradicate them, it may be wiser in the long run to accept them, be gentle with them, and work to change our responses to them.

I read a fantastically powerful book by Cheryl Strayed called "Dear Sugar," a compilation of her work as the anonymous advice columnist for the literary website, "the Rumpus."  She talks at one point about how all the things we may want to throw away: the shitty jobs, the in-betweenness, the mundane, are actually our becoming.

This is powerful for me now because I do not feel like I have "arrived," but I do feel like I have a very good life, and that is a beautiful thing.  I keep coming back to this- to find a way to be present with uncertainty is to relish some of the best parts of life.  The in-between is just as important as the arriving.

Steven and I realized the other day the we met a year ago and started dating.  So, we went out and ate fried oysters and had pumpkin ricotta cheesecake, and we spent a day driving around the hill country looking for a state park, and when we found it we walked in the river and took pictures of the trees.

He came over the other morning and made pancakes, they had chocolate chips in them and there was orange juice and a little bouquet of purple and yellow flowers that is still sitting next to my bed.

I don't know where this canoe is headed, but it's been a great trip so far.

I will leave you with this quote by Bill Watterson, who is the creator of Calvin and Hobbes.  This was part of a commencement speech he gave, and boy does it ring true.  I think underneath it is an encouragement to DO THE WORK, and don't be so preoccupied with the possible results.  For me this may mean writing- thinking about writing is not the same as writing.  Do the work, every day, and in the meantime let your life be big and messy and quiet and small and imperfect and full.

" . . . It is worth recognizing that there is no such thing as an overnight success. You will do well to cultivate the resources in yourself that bring you happiness outside of success or failure. The truth is, most of us discover where we are headed when we arrive. At that time, we turn around and say, yes, this is obviously where I was going all along. It's a good idea to try and enjoy the scenery on the detours, because you will probably take a few."  (Bill Watterson)

Homeward Bound

In approximately 7 hours I will be on a plane headed back to Seattle.  I've haven't seen my hometown skyline in a year, and over the past few weeks I have been dreaming of homemade pesto, leisurely Sundays at the farmer's market, the back patio of King's with a $3 bloody mary, the faces of my favorite people, the happy old family dog.

When I get back I will be heading to the Methow Valley for two days, to spend time with our dear family friends in their Earthship home, checking out the stars and the beans growing in the garden, squash plants and the little swimming hole under the Carlton bridge, walking through the Cascade Mountains, watching the river snake its way through the late summer valley.

As I mentioned before, my esteemed Pops is retiring after 30+ year of working for the Dept. of Transportation, and we are throwing the party to end all parties.  I hear there is a pinata with an elaborate pulley system, a pony keg, and a newly built fire pit.  It's going to be epic.  Some of my buds will be there, many of whom have known (and loved/been loved by) my folks for 15 years!

The last 2 weeks have been a blur of unemployment.  I ended my job about a week after returning home from New Mexico, which we will talk about in a moment.  Steven took me canoeing for the first time- 8 miles in an aluminum canoe down the San Marcos river, spring fed, cool, and oh so blue.  We logged many turtle sightings, flipped over once, and I pledged to come back for more.

I had a big city night downtown, we saw The Tallest Man on Earth, very skinny, VERY talented Swedish musician, and enjoyed peach cobbler with blackberry ice cream at the famous Driskill Hotel before the show.

Swam in Barton Springs, took Guthrie running, headed to Schulenberg, TX for a church fundraiser that included a giant meal of fried chicken and a live polka band (and a copious amount of old czech people and babies.)

We had a cold front move through Austin yesterday, and temp dropped from about 104 degrees to 91.  Morning actually had a cool breeze blowin' through, and I took it as a reminder of the newness that can accompany change; a sign of good things to come.

The last thing I wanted to share with y'all was my trip to New Mexico.  I had promised vivid descriptions of winding dirt roads, giant forks, and rainbow connections.  I gotta pack and print my boarding pass, so instead here is a list of the most memorable moments.

- Balmorhea, TX.  Scene of the crime where we were not allowed into the beautiful natural spring a few months ago because an uppity parent had called the Austin office to complain about their kid getting a case of "the itchies." There were fish, and we had a snorkel.  It was worth the wait.

-Did you know that the big yellow "Welcome to New Mexico" sign on the border of West Texas is riddled with bullet holes? So were many of the other road signs we saw throughout the back roads of New Mexico.  Some outlaw shit.

-White Sands National Monument.  Mountains of white gypsum, glowing white in the hot sun.  We saw an alien, then had to go to Walmart to get snacks, in the small city of Alamogordo.  Also, did you know that the Applebee's in Alamogordo has Karoake every Thursday night, and cheap glasses of Blue Moon beer?

-Photos.  I took photos of sage, sunsets, long roads, a lizard, St. Francis of Assisi, and a pizza.  In college I used to take a lot of photos of my feet- I resisted the urge.

-Santa Fe.  We pulled into Roadrunner Campground around 12:30 am and I grumpily insisted we sleep in the tent instead of the back seat of the car.  The tent and I had a showdown- there was cussing, and wrestling, but I won.

-Trader Joe's.  Everyone in the Trader Joe's in Santa Fe had on funny sandals and turquoise jewelry, and they were all over 65.

-Taos.  Be still my beating heart- I love this mountain town.  We saw the Rio Grande gorge, hiked to Wheeler Lake, had coffee and ice cream in Arroyo Seco, watched afternoon thunderstorms roll through the foothills.

-Adobe and Pines Inn.  The highlight of the the trip for me was visiting my friend from Austin, who now owns this gorgeous Bed and Breakfast in Taos with her husband.  There were long nights of conversation about hot air balloons and marathons, dinners of baked leeks with lemon and garlic and scallops, wine, learning about Alice Waters, playing with Molly the dog, and feeling content and open to a sense of possibility that is hard to find.  Go to Adobe and Pines Inn if you can.  Hard to find spots in this world where good people and a connection to something deeper are so intertwined- it is a special place, indeed.

-Amarillo: the one night we spent in a hotel was in sleepy downtown Amarillo- we had planned to sleep at Palo Duro canyon, but a late evening storm flooded all the low water crossings.  Instead we ate bean dip and chips for dinner and watched "What Not to Wear." Awesome.

-Lubbock: yes, Buddy Holly grew up there.  The museum had so much of his life in it, his guitar, even his glasses, which were recovered from the plane wreckage and donated by the family, though they sat in an evidence locker for decades before they were found again.

All in all, it was an enchanting place, though with more drunk driving memorials and poor towns then they like to admit.  I loved being there, hope to go back again soon.

But now, it's time to go back home.  I'll take a plane instead of a tornado, and leave my dog to chew his toys and sleep on the bed as much as he likes.  I'll miss the warmth of Texas and my life here, but hometown Seattle has been calling for months now. It's where this all began. There's no place like it.





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A Case of the Muppets

Sick days are one of the things the modern world has done best. There is little sweeter then exchanging the drudgery of work for old movies, pajamas, and maybe a trip to the gas station down the street for beer and frozen pizza. The couple blocks to the gas station are a decidedly more pleasant commute then a scorching 100 degree Austin bike ride, or a 45 minute Seattle bus ride at 7:00 am in the pouring rain. I have always relished sick days, in particular the ones I took not actually because I was ill, but because I knew I needed to pause, and take better care of myself for a day.

At the moment, I do not have a job where I can call in sick easily, as retail and customer service comes with no real structure to support the tired, sick, or burnt out employee.  That said, I was immensely tickled by an email that a co-worker sent out several weeks ago, in which she described a dream wherein she called in sick with "a case of the muppets." In her dream, she called our boss and told him she could not come into work that day, because she had begun acting like a muppet AND COULD NOT STOP.

I love this! Why had I not realized this was an affliction up until now! I've had this disease since I was about 4 years old.

While I am an intensely practical person, and fully value the necessity of work to pay bills and make rent, I think in my heart I am a dillettante.  I would rather read Billy Collins and admire my folk music collection all day then punch into the clock for 8 hours.  I would rather practice making Foccacia bread then grade another teacher's spelling quizzes.

I think this mix of pragmatism combined with the ability to spend hours leisurely staring at blades of grass comes directly from my folks.  My Pops retired this week, after 32 years of working for the Department of Transportation.  When I was little he would bring home treasures he found while working on the freeway in Seattle: stickers, dining room table chairs, even his favorite pair of loafers.  He woke up at 4:00 am every morning, and was usually home by the time we were getting off the school bus.  He and my Mom supported the family through our childhood and adolescence, and I have so much respect for the sacrifices he made, and the dedication with which they raised us.  In the evenings he would walk the dog, listen to Dylan, or The Allman Brother's Eat a Peach, play guitar, sit on the porch, spend time with his kids.  Now that his retirement is official and the endless weekend has begun, he tells us his plans are the same.

Pa- "Walk the dog, go on E-bay, play guitar."

Ma- "Is that really your plan for the next twenty years?"

Pa- "Yes."

I am so thankful that my father has this opportunity now- to read, watch the crows flying through suburbs, road trip to Austin, have his life be his own again.

In terms of my own relationship with work, it was enlightening to realize that the time had come to make a change.  The bare truth is that many parts of our lives- work, the place we live, relationships, and especially old patterns, serve their purpose. There is a time and place for them, but many of us (myself included) have troubling knowing when the time has come to move on. (For more inspiration, please see Tom Petty's album Wildflowers.)  

On a deeper level, there are times when these old habits of fearing change, and the unknown, become detrimental.  We get stuck- at a job, in a city, a relationship, a way of being.  We must still be responsible- recklessness is different then risk taking.  That said, there are times when we have a case of the muppets, and instead of ignoring it, we must listen.

I quit my grocery store job this week, and will soon be in search of other work.  For a few short weeks, however, I will eat rice and beans, and weed the garden for hours.  I will finally get around to reading East of Eden and Lonesome Dove, and enjoy the last few weeks of summer.

I imagined calling my boss, and yelling over the phone- "I can't come in. I got a nose job and changed my name to Gonzo! I'm wearing a bear suit and I decided to become a stand up comedian! OR My boyfriend turned into a frog. We bought a Studebaker and are setting off to see America!"

A mentor of mine once told me that our great work is to follow our heart, not our fear. When we realize we are putting ourselves in situations that compromise our basic needs for sleep, exercise, and overall health, this is a sign that we haven't heeded the call. Fear helps us stay put, it's logical and powerful. Heart is trickier- it might be just a whisper at first, and we may want to quiet the voice, since listening means throwing ourselves back into uncertainty, or towards a path that is rarely filled with light.  Rather, it is shrouded in both mystery and possibility.

Next week I am headed to New Mexico to do a little soul searching (and camping) with Steven.  Looking forward to Santa Fe sunsets, a friend's place in Taos, maybe some banjo playing along the way. We'll be looking for that giant fork in the road, and I hope we find it.