Here I go walking in circles again. If it's not one direction out my front door, it's the other, always in circles, round and round the neighborhood, looping past the same houses, same yards, same trees.
Adaptation comes little by little, accepting what I must, embracing what I can, trying to not tip over. I can do this, I can do this. I have no choice.
What will be my Quarantine Story, what tales will I tell in five years, or 10 or 20? Will it be a story of victory or sadness, revelation or survival, entertainment or boredom, or even joy? Which stories will last, and which will be of the moment?
This week I'm looking to see or hear what the trees are trying to tell me, They are stark and dramatic now, and their personalities revealed without the extravagance of leaves. The trees' rain-darkened bones stand out clearly, accentuated against the skies' lighter backdrop.
Four years in Portland, and I'm no longer feeling quite Californian, and almost but not quite an Oregonian. I celebrated quietly and took note of how it feels now.
Looking for color in the Dog Days of summer.
...recently, driving 1900 miles through California and back, feeling the pull in both directions, I realize that I've become polyamorous, very much a two state woman.
I set out alone from Santa Barbara on a hot July day, my little sedan packed to the brim, and cruised north along Highway 101. The one key I owned was to my car. I had just finished packaging up my life, to leave the place I'd lived for 32 years. I was alternately thrilled … Continue reading Changing For Good