Sometimes you have to step back into the past to find a way to move forward. Actually I just made that up; I don’t know if it’s true. But doesn’t it sound good? I went back to my old home for a week. What did I find? Sustenance, encouragement, joy, beauty, camaraderie. Oh and warmth. A jumping off place. I don’t know what’s next, but I feel good since coming back; the tank is full. That’s good, because I’m writing this in record snowfall.

My week in Santa Barbara wore me out in the best possible way. “How’s your trip so far?” people asked along the way, and I could barely answer, so overwhelmed by the non-stop delightful activity and rich conversations. It’s been 3 ½ years since our last visit, but we picked up where we left off, basking in the warmth of mutual affection, more than I could ever find the words for.

I let go of covid; just a touch of caution with a background noise of alarm. I was committed as soon as our Lyft took us to the airport, though I did bring the latest additions to my packing list – masks and test kits. Traveling friends cheered me on: Go! It’s a wonderful world out there! Those more cautious were quiet, perhaps waiting to see what would happen. One friend pointed out that you can get it anywhere; she’d been out of the country six times but got covid in her living room.Being fully vaxxed, I’m not afraid of covid, I just don’t want the long kind. But, onward.

I watched myself giving up, embracing this new hybrid reality. We were in close proximity with friends (and friends of theirs), in small rooms, unmasked, hugging, kissing, over and over. I adjusted, and left my mask in my pocket. It was time to live and love and hope, like we used to. Except at the grocery store. And the airport.

On Our Way

My travel skills are rusty. The flight was delayed and I fought off an impending sense of doom. Are they lying? Will it be longer? So few masks! Then a quick repack when my suitcase was too bulky, and someone took my overhead bin. I was sweating by the time I settled. Behind us a woman volubly told her partner she’s going to “talk his ear off” about a purse she wants to buy and then proceeded to do so, comparing it to all her other purses. I think she was trying to help his anxiety but it kind of raised mine.

We lifted off from Portland’s deep green forests and dark blue rivers, and 90 minutes later descended in a wide arc over the Santa Ynez mountains and a flat grey-blue ocean. The Channel Islands lined up buttressed by clouds, and I was surprised and pleased to see them; I’d forgotten! It won’t be the first surprise-not-surprise of the trip. Over and over the beauty overwhelmed me, as does the memory of taking it for granted in the decades I lived there.

Our first view from the tarmac was the palm trees. How weary I was of them when we lived here. Dry, dusty, messy in the wind, useless, no shade, and not much green. The one in our yard housed rats unless we were diligent about cutting the browning fronds that drooped around the trunk. My visits to the Pacific Northwest back then were magical – dense, moist, shady, lung-filling. Now the palms are the first old friend to greet me, a comforting reminder of what my life once was, what I had, and who I was.

Though we’d visited several times since leaving almost nine years ago, this time we stayed with friends – two nights each in three homes, down the hall from their bedrooms, waking up to shared coffee, retreating in the evening when our words were spent. Moving from place to place was a whirlwind, but a sublime way to reconnect. Conversations shifted and deepened, and we picked up later where we left off. My social skills came back. Our talk ranged from past to present to future, words tumbling over words, with plenty of catching up to do. Here we raised our children, worked long hours accomplishing much and resenting constraints, made lots of music, argued and made up, and shared joy and heartbreak.

We hit the ground running, trying to visit everyone, play music with many, eat our favorite foods (as much avocado as possible!), and see every vista, shoreline, and mountain. One week to embrace each bit of history. I counted 35 different people (and we missed a few)! That’s a wide swath of life to cover in a week. It felt like we were returning wanderers who survived the wilds, and welcomed into a warm tub of longtime connection. My introvert self got a thorough workout, but I was storing it all up for solitary times ahead.

Day 1

We began the trip with our oldest Santa Barbara friends. We’d shared pregnancies, births, and childcare, and discovered homeschooling together. Another friend joined us and we talked into the evening, the house full of reminders of our 38 years of history, memories of talent shows and literary clubs. Now, grandchildren dotted the conversations. How widely and deeply we know one another! I don’t take it for granted.

Day 2

My beloved Farmer’s Market was rich with California delights, a more abundant array compared to Portland’s winter offerings of greens and winter squashes. And they had so many avocados.

The town of course was changed and not changed, like everywhere three years later. The walk down State Street (the main drag) was bizarrely empty on a Saturday late morning. The street has been closed off to cars (something I’d always hoped for) so restaurants can have outdoor seating, but few people strolled or window shopped the way I remembered, and some stores were still boarded up. All week friends told us that downtown had become a bit of a ghost town. While some pieces of the trip felt fully post-covid, others were stuttering to a start.

When I bought plane tickets last November, the darkness already felt unending, and the cold gathered itself around me. I poked my head up long enough to make reservations and held it out as a guiding light while winter fell like a stone. Now, the wind had a chill but the brilliant blue sky was a balm. It was 10-15 degrees warmer than Portland, daylight lingered longer, and the sun’s arc was noticeably higher. Relief.

We joined our hosts for lunch outside at the restaurant at Hendry’s Beach, where we’d played with our small children, met with fellow homeschoolers, took countless long walks alone or with friends; a beach as familiar as my own backyard. This time though the tide was at its highest and the wind howled, and the winter beach was strewn with rocks and boulders; only my memory took a long walk. But the proximity of water, the far horizon, the islands, and the salt air buoyed me up. The seafood platter (with avocado) was a sumptuous taste of the sea.

We spent the evening with dear friends – so smart and interesting and vivid, I was breathless. It was inspiring and so pleasurable in the moment that I longed to stay forever. Too bad about reality, like money, age, convenience, gardens. I wanted to do everything and be everywhere all the time. Our hosts treated us to a Super Rica #16 with guacamole, we played a few songs, and I was back in the old groove.

Day 3

I was gobsmacked by the beauty on the drive to Ojai, again surprised at how much I’d forgotten. Highway 150 winds up through citrus and avocado orchards and into mountains with layers of greens, sage, moss, mauve, olive. The tiny town snuggles up to the base of mountains that rise straight up thousands of feet. Layers of geologic time stared me down each time I stepped outside, making me feel inconsequential.

For lunch we wrangled together five of the couples that made up the core of our homeschooling group that had its start over 30 years ago. This was as rare for them as it was for me, and we were all thrilled to be together in one place. The home cooking sparked another round of nostalgia for the many potluck meals we’d shared over the decades.

I jokingly credit these women as the ones who have forgiven me over and over, but that’s what happens when you parent and grow and learn together over a long stretch. The thick and thin of our lives is part of me. After our kids grew up we turned in different directions, but the warmth runs in our veins.

Later we wound down 150 the other way (toward Santa Paula) to Ventura for our first musical jam fest.

The afternoon was hosted by Alan’s brother and wife. Some of Alan’s oldest friends from childhood and high school were there (we missed a few who couldn’t make it), and even one from his old band, who we hadn’t seen since the mid-90s. We scrabbled around remembering songs played way back when, and muscle memory won the day, drawing out snippets from our collective memory. We often ended a song at the same time. I recalled being so nervous playing with these folks that my hands shook. Then they became my friends too, and also my musical mentors, inspiration, and supporters.

Are you tired yet? Stay tuned for Part II: more talk, more walk, more music, more beauty, and more avocados….