In the last week, I accidentally hit a medicine man in
the thigh with a lemon quarter. I met erudite and hilarious writers who
matter-of-factly accept the appearance of wolves as spiritual guides. I walked on Red Rocks and sniffed the silver-berried air. I got a facial from
a lovely, Japanese-speaking woman who ministered to my shoulders with hot rocks
she got from the sea in San Diego. “They
still have good energy! You live in
Sedona a while, you start talking like that!
Very different from East Coast!” Since, after all, it was my birthday, I also got a pedicure and received
kick-ass foot maintenance advice from another esthetician (Black & Decker
Mouse hand sander with fine grit paper. You’re welcome). I learned a Sufi secret. I met an old, dear friend and her
jolly, impossibly dimpled baby in the Phoenix airport.
My friend was tired in such a familiar way. I realized it's a life-changing exhaustion, even after the
sleep deficit disappears. I made a
luminous, smart and kind new friend whose creativity, insight and logic were
all reminders of how fabulous it is to get out of your comfort zone just so you
can meet people like her. The term
“douchbagel” became, for better or worse, part of my lexicon. I did
not seek an encounter with an animal spiritual guide, but I read some psalms
and came back to my old gurus (vintage U2) after a long time away. I remembered the importance of tending to my own medicine. I resolved to write non-precious things more
often and to actually post them, too. Let's hope I don't regret the last one. Eeek! Too late.
Break
Sedona without expectations. The desert grows beauty. The red rocks anchor. Sun and clouds duel on an endless stage.
Inside: a smooth duvet, pitch black room and silence uninterrupted. The sleep I've dreamt of for over five years does not disappoint.
Strangers become comrades. We battle to get the words out, learning the trick, sometimes, is to surrender. We surrender precious. We surrender ego. We surrender sentences. It is safe.
Darling, I Love You, but Give Me Park Avenue
We moved.
We moved into a rental house, since we couldn't find a house that we loved enough to buy.
Everyone says that the rental is a great way to experience a new community: you get to learn the lay of the land and decide where you really want to live before committing. I get it, and they are right. But the fact remains that renting means a second move, and moving is high on my list of soul-sucking activities.
The kids' spaces are homey and livable, but sealed and still-full boxes cluster in almost every other corner. The adult bookshelves are bare. My spatulas lurk in the depths of the packed boxes of wedding china, and there they will remain until we move to a more final destination. Who needs spatualas? (I do. Suprisingly often.)
So, we're here and getting sort of settled but not really settled. It's a beautiful seaside town, much smaller and bucolic than any where else I've ever lived. It's nice to not panic if I forget to lock my car door and it's great to let the kids burn off their late-afternoon grumpiness on the beach, and there's plenty of free parking, but it's... very.... quiet.... here. You can't walk to much, and most things are at least a 20 minute drive away (by "things", I mean mommy conveniences: Whole Foods, the Target, the highway that takes you into the city--not that you'd want to drive into the city). You can take a boat into Boston, which is very cool, and there is a train--but neither run on weekends, so they are of limited use. So I am feeling trapped in a half-settled house in the middle of nowhere, but the tasks at hand (tackling the boxes, arranging the books on the shelves, and always laundry, lunches and dinner) don't exactly fill me with zest.
It takes time, I know. I suspect the perfect house will pop up within an hour after I surrender and unpack the spatulas, and that clarity over whether this town is right for us will develop the minute I shelve those books. Guess I'll work on the books first.
We moved into a rental house, since we couldn't find a house that we loved enough to buy.
Everyone says that the rental is a great way to experience a new community: you get to learn the lay of the land and decide where you really want to live before committing. I get it, and they are right. But the fact remains that renting means a second move, and moving is high on my list of soul-sucking activities.
The kids' spaces are homey and livable, but sealed and still-full boxes cluster in almost every other corner. The adult bookshelves are bare. My spatulas lurk in the depths of the packed boxes of wedding china, and there they will remain until we move to a more final destination. Who needs spatualas? (I do. Suprisingly often.)
So, we're here and getting sort of settled but not really settled. It's a beautiful seaside town, much smaller and bucolic than any where else I've ever lived. It's nice to not panic if I forget to lock my car door and it's great to let the kids burn off their late-afternoon grumpiness on the beach, and there's plenty of free parking, but it's... very.... quiet.... here. You can't walk to much, and most things are at least a 20 minute drive away (by "things", I mean mommy conveniences: Whole Foods, the Target, the highway that takes you into the city--not that you'd want to drive into the city). You can take a boat into Boston, which is very cool, and there is a train--but neither run on weekends, so they are of limited use. So I am feeling trapped in a half-settled house in the middle of nowhere, but the tasks at hand (tackling the boxes, arranging the books on the shelves, and always laundry, lunches and dinner) don't exactly fill me with zest.
It takes time, I know. I suspect the perfect house will pop up within an hour after I surrender and unpack the spatulas, and that clarity over whether this town is right for us will develop the minute I shelve those books. Guess I'll work on the books first.
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