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This post is dedicated to Celeste Tibbets, who was the sponsor of today’s route (which was originally Mahwa, New Jersey but turned out to be Montclair). Celeste lives in Decatur, Georgia and today was her birthday.

 

This time last year I had no inkling that I’d be on the 6^th day of a 40-day bicycle trip to Wisconsin with a vintage typerider behind me in a trailer. This time last year I was contemplating a move to Los Angeles, was thinking that maybe it was time to give San Francisco a break. This time last year I was freshly single after a two-year-long relationship that had kept me fixed and fixated and often a little frantic, and was getting my sea legs again. This time last year I was thinking about change and letting go and letting loose.

 

Today, I cycled through a disorienting complex of the towns and suburbs of New Jersey. First the manicured lawns of Ridgefield and then the bruised and battered city of Paterson, and then into the wide streets and generous bike lanes of Montclair, where the wind kicked up a notch and curtailed my stop at Raymond’s.

 

There wasn’t much typing to be had today, and the ride itself was on the low end of the scale, but now, at this late hour, I’m seeing that perhaps a natural break came without even my knowing that I needed it, a brief Sabbath to refresh my legs, absorb the influx of experiences and stimuli that’s come barreling at me this past week, spend some quality time with friends, turn things down a notch or two.

 

Every evening, Grace and I close the day with what our highs and lows have been. And each evening, the lows are so minorly minor we almost forget to say them. But the highs are gargantuan, sprawling, almost delirious. They are almost unspeakably high. So we look each other in the eyes and shake our heads and hold out our hands to the other and smile our sleepy smiles and tell each other lucky we are, how blessed, how happy.

December 31, 2010 was the first New Year's Eve I've ever spent entirely alone. I'd come back that night from Mexico, after nearly a week of bright, warm sun and soft sand and excellent guacamole, and ridiculous amounts of fun with my nephew and niece. On a whim, I introduced Eli to the P90X workout series, and he came in every morning to my room and asked if we could do "the exercises." Mostly, though, it was time swimming in the pool with the little ones, dipping our feet in the ocean waves, searching for sea shells, reading Charlie and the Chocolate Factory aloud, and laughing my butt off at their antics. I adored seeing them together, the love they clearly feel for each other, their amusement and play and very distinct way of communicating. It amazed me, really, how these two little beings already know each other so well, how Eli translated Teia's versions of certain words when no one else could, the way Teia looked up at him for approval or encouragement, how easily they move their bodies around each other. I felt so lucky to have spent such concentrated, extended time with them.

I came home from the airport in record time, unpacked my bags, made myself dinner, turned on the television and watched the last hour of Rocky Balboa, the one where Sylvester Stallone comes out of retirement to have one final fight. I'd decided to trick myself and pretend it was like any old Friday night. (It helps tremendously that I live on a quiet street and that it was sprinkling out.) I did make a celebratory pink grapefruit gimlet, but that was the extent of my revelry. I was in bed and nearly asleep by 11:30 p.m. And it was EXACTLY what I needed.

. . . 

It's been a week since New Year's Eve and I can tell you that for the first time in I can't remember when, I'm happy to start over with a fresh calendar. I have this feeling that the year will be quite different than the last, more solid, more sure of itself, steadier on its feet. 

I'm not one for resolutions - there's an extreme bar that these tend to set, which lends itself to easy disappointment or defeat - but I did decide that I would make them anyway this year. Except these resolutions were not about things that I want to do but, instead, things that I wanted to feel.

Watching Eli dive into the pool for the first time is how I want to feel: elated, confident, free.
Watching Teia in my father's arms is how I want to feel: safe, serene, held perfectly.
Watching Eli riding a burro is how I want to feel: adventurous, giddy with movement.
Watching Teia climb up and down the stairs is how I want to feel: focused, balanced, motivated, absolutely certain.

What I was so struck by with the two of them was the utter trust they have in their bodies, their lack of self-consciousness, the constant curiosity and exploration of their environment, and their uncanny ability to express their preferences and needs without apology.

This is how I want to feel. And I'm going to make choices that support that whole-heartedly. Without exception.

. . .

I'm going to end here. And tell you that I am migrating this blog over to a new location: www.thiseverymoment.posterous.com. "This Every Moment" will be a place for me to post random photos and writings in 2011. I am intending it not as a daily journal or record-keeper of any sort, but more as a landing spot for the minutiae and ephemera I come across. Maybe it's a snapshot taken from the car. Or a line of poetry I can't seem to expand into a poem. A fragment, a slice, a glance of things. I see it as a kind of stew pot of ordinary moments, that drawer to the left of the sink with bits and pieces of things. All around, these dangling participles of life, in their own way, filling in the story.

I hope your year unfolds with grace, good humor, and good fortune. 

And thank you, thank you, thank you, for coming along for the ride with me.

Maya

It's so interesting to see what happens in a state of blank slate-ness. To simply be and let things rise to the surface at their own time, with their own itinerary.

I've spent the past few days hunkered down at home, barely making contact with the world outside my apartment save for trips to the grocery store and the neighborhood cafe, an evening of pick-up basketball, dinner with a friend, and a late-night showing of "Black Swan." I can't remember when I've had this much concentrated, intentional time alone, and how nourishing that aloneness has been.

Sometime during this swath of solitude, a little spark rose up in me, the urge to create. So I sat down at my dining room table one morning, found little business card-sized pieces of cardboard I'd kept from some other project, dragged my collection of papers next to me, and the baskets of diorama goodies I've been keeping for years, and my hot glue gun and a bowl of glue sticks and the remnants of two magnetic poetry kits that had come with me on my trip. And just let my hands and my eyes figure it out.

"Cardlings" is what I came up with. ("Random Acts of Poetry" is their subtitle.) There's only one of each, and these I have already sent out to the great beyond via the US postal service, but I am intent on making more...

...as soon as I get back from Mexico. I am leaving, for real, on tomorrow's morning flight to Puerto Vallarta, where I will spend the week with my dad and his partner and my sister and her family, and where I can now envision - with a little more clarity and peace - the time I will spend away. I know that my little vacation-before-vacation has done me a world of good. Something inside of me has steadied itself, unwound, found its home again.

What I have loved learning this week on my own is the importance of self-care, on as many levels as it can be done. And I've also discovered that there's a burst of art lying in wait, always. And that sometimes it's a hibernation that sets it free. I feel so lucky that I stuck around to see this, and that I got to experience it first-hand.

And so, on this Christmas eve, 7 minutes before midnight, I'm wishing you rest and restoration as one year sidles to a close, and another one gets ready to make its entrance.

- Maya

There are times that it feels like nothing is happening, that life is moving at sloth-like speed or you're mired in the thick tar of your indecisions, or something is just refusing to budge, and you're stuck behind it, or around it, or inside of it, and it seems like it will take earthquakes to shift it into gear. 

And there are other times when the world is whirling and swirling, and you're just barely able to catch your breath to move with it. 

And then there are those times when some things are going along at a ridiculously fast clip while other things are inching along imperceptibly or not at all. 

This past week has been such a mix.

First, I was heading to the East Coast to be with my mom to help sort through my grandfather's things, and there was the languorous yet focused time we took in his apartment, all of those things I held in my hands and took in, the life he'd lived, the people he'd been connected to, his books and newspaper clippings and photographs and achievements and incongruities and eccentricities, all the eyeglasses he'd owned in his lifetime kept in a box in a dresser drawer, the stencils he'd so carefully used to design the newsletters he'd send out regularly, the letterhead he'd borrow and add new titles for himself to, the plaques for blood donations and summer camp scholarships awarded and sent letters he'd copied and programs to conferences he'd attended and the birthday cards and the music programs he'd organized and all the places his handwriting lay in its slanty, nearly illegible Germanic form. 

And then, the way-station of the flight back, a surprisingly conversational seat neighbor who made the time go by quickly - a sweet guy named Tyler in his last year of college heading to Texas for his uncle's funeral with his family in tow. I don't think I've every taken so many photos from the air, but there was something about the time of day, the light on the clouds, the clouds themselves, the feeling that this really was this privileged respite between where I'd been and what was coming up next, almost a kind of imperviousness there in the air with all that space around us. 

Then, touching down, and the next two days filled with shopping and cooking for my friend Naomi's 80th birthday party, a Moroccan feast for 50 that brought me front and center with my hands and my mind and my body, the list-making, the measuring, the slightly edgy guesswork involved in figuring out, exactly, how much dinner 50 people eat. I was still reeling a bit from a strange combination of jetlag and time zones and the altered state of nostalgia and archeology. I wheeled my cart through Trader Joe's in a kind of trance.

But I did it, and the food turned out great, and I managed the heavy crates and all the transport in the rain, and Naomi's delight and energy at the party made everything worth it. I came home and hauled myself to the hot tub for a soak, and then, even though it was close to midnight and I was beyond weary, I put away my laundry and set to packing again.

There was a flight to Mexico to catch the next day, a long-planned trip with my family for 12 days, and I hadn't had a moment to think about it. I started piling things up for the next day, and did a quick once-over in the fridge to throw out anything that would spoil during my absence, and got my toiletries together, and set my alarm for 6:00 to finish everything else.

It wasn't until I was sitting at the gate ready to board the flight, with my sister and brother-in-law and their kiddos, that I realized that I wasn't quite ready to leave, and that even though this vacation would theoretically be restful, I was - instead - feeling unsettled, ungrounded, unexcited. There were several reasons for this, which I won't go into detail here, but ultimately it came down to this: This wasn't where I wanted to be right now. 

Still, we boarded. I sat down and arranged myself in my seat, put my book in the seat pocket, buckled my seat belt. The plane started to fill up. The sky was very very grey - bursts of rain and wind evident on the tarmac. I prepared myself for a bumpy ride out.

And then, out of nowhere, a voice from above - or in this case, a voice on the intercom - asked if there was one person willing to give up their seat. They'd overbooked the flight by 1, and would someone volunteer to delay their flight by a day in exchange for a $400 travel voucher? 

And even though I'd gotten up early and forfeited a good sleep, and even though I had packed and cleaned my house, and even though I had just spent a frolicky hour with my nephew and was excited to take him swimming, and even though my niece looked irresistibly adorable in her curls, and even though my sister and brother-in-law were sitting right behind me...nevertheless. 

I rang my call button and said yes and got my things together and said my farewells (trying to explain to my nephew what was happening) and then returned to the gate and the check-in desk and got my travel voucher and flight rebooked and headed to the train back to the city.

An hour later, I realized that leaving the next day didn't feel right either. So I got online and changed my ticket for the 25th, which would still give me 6 days away, and sunk into the cushions of my living room couch and fell asleep. 

This last day-and-a-half has felt like the best kind of luxury. Time, alone, to myself, quiet and simple, no plans, no big movements, no big decisions other than what do I feel like eating and am I ready to go to bed and let's see what's on TV. 

Sometimes, in the swirl of things, something in me recognizes exactly what it needs and chooses the path of least resistance. And this is a beautiful thing, a surprising thing, in the face of more exotic opportunities, in the throes of holiday dizziness and heavy rains and this rush-rush everywhere. Something clear-eyed, clear-voiced, comes through.

I was so grateful that I knew to say yes to that offer to get off the plane, go home, and stay put for a few more days. It was one of those serendipitous moments where the choice to do something kept making more sense the further I went into it, the further I allowed myself to accept the yes of it. 

I find myself now, as I write from this red couch in a cafe two blocks from my house, feeling the deep breath of this moment, this privileged way-station that isn't unlike what it was like in that plane back from my mother's, talking to Tyler, 35,000 feet above and between worlds. Across from me someone is bending toward their laptop with a hot cup of tea to her left. There's a man scribbling something into a notebook, looking earnest and puzzled at the same time. There's a song from some other era sidling out of the speaker. The first item on the menu board behind the register reads "Healthy Starts." And tonight, in the middle of the night, a unique astronomical event will occur, a lunar eclipse colliding with the beginning of winter solstice. 

Maybe the sky will stay cloudy, and I won't see it. Maybe the beach in Mexico might have given me a better vantage point. Maybe I won't live to 2094, when the next one will happen. 

But it is alright. This is where I am. And this is who I want to be. A woman who knows, deep in her belly, amidst the swirling, whirling currents of her life, how to take care of herself. 

Visits to my grandfather - for the years that he resided in an assisted living facility - usually included a meal in the communal dining room followed by a visit to his apartment. Both of these experiences could feel a little unsettling in their own ways. My grandfather would insist that you order everything that was available - there was a system whereby you circled the items on the menu and handed it to your table waiter - but the food definitely more senior-friendly than flavorful so I tended to stick to things I knew I would like - a turkey club sandwich, a green salad, a cup of tomato soup. I did not want the stewed prunes or the Swiss steak or the Jello salad, and I'd have to hold my ground, tell him that I was happy with the meal I chose.

After we ate, my grandfather would usually take us upstairs to show us something from his photo albums, or the new family tree he'd drawn up, or simply to extend the visit while he sat down at his desk chair, buoyed by pillows.

I often found myself steeling against these visits to his apartment. The place needed to air out, for one. And it was filled with things - binders and books and photographs and artifacts on every available real estate in the room. There was a claustrophobia, a feeling of being a little trapped, hustled into this environment of someone else's ephemera and nostalgia and...well, aged-ness. These visits brought me front and center with age, with seniorhood, with a certain proximity to death. This was the last stop, this assisted living facility. This was the last place these residents would ever live. It was hard to keep myself from feeling sad, or morbid, or - more often - resistant to the idea of dying. It's like it all came down to this: mushy food and a studio apartment crammed with photo albums coming apart at the seams. 

. . .

Walking in to my grandfather's apartment early this afternoon, I was struck by how much easier it was to breathe in there. I could feel a part of him there still, of course - how could I not, surrounded by his things - but gone was this agitation, this estrangement, this desire to distance myself.

No, this was about getting up close and personal. Opening the drawers and pulling out everything inside. The bathroom cabinet, under the kitchen sink, the bureau with his socks, the closets where his too-big suits slumped on the hangers. His desk was full of things to look at and decipher. His handwriting was everywhere, all of the things he kept and catalogued. He saved everything and kept it filed and labeled as if these were archives to a museum.

They were. As my mother and I sifted and sorted, and as my uncle arrived with cardboard boxes and bags and began folding up my grandfather's closet, I couldn't help but think this was the closest I'd ever been to him, my fingers grazing over his things, exploring all the places he didn't think to show us on our visits upstairs. This wasn't about photo albums or family trees. This was about the piles of blank greeting cards he kept in a box in the third drawer down. This was the strips of stickers, the dozens of sunglasses, the typewritten fragments he received from friends, the small torn pillow he slept with nightly, the old tin that housed cookies, the Whitman's Samplers and Ricola cough drops, the Ziplock bag of uncertain keys.

I thought to myself how lucky I was to be there, making my way through such an intimate geography. It was less sad than I'd expected it to be, mostly because so much came alive in those hours today, a part of him I'd never seen on these visits, the part that breathed and slept and woke in this place daily, the engine of him, the back stage, the bones of who he was.

It was an exhausting day, and after we all came back to my uncle's house I insisted on making us some drinks. Soon my cousin came home, then Korby, and we sat down to her amazing cooking, then plopped ourselves on the couch for a movie, which was about all the activity we could muster.

Tomorrow we return for round 2, and it feels a little strange to say, but I'm looking forward to being there again, among his things, wending my way further in, getting to know the grandfather behind my grandfather.

 

I threw myself a homecoming party on Saturday and invited a group of my friends, most of whom had never met each other. I had the slideshow from my trip going on my giant television, and I'd made brisket and a potato-carrot mash and deviled eggs and there was cheese and crackers and a special cocktail I drummed up (vodka, pear infusion, grapefruit juice, and grated ginger). And just because I always like to make it possible for some sort of creative activity to happen, I had laid out a diorama-making station on my dining room table. 

The party started at about 3:30 in the afternoon and ended up going until 1:30 in the morning. A new set of people came every half-hour or 45 minutes, and so it was this wonderful revolving door of friends, some staying longer than others, getting comfy on the couch, having a second helping of whatever was on the stove, which at about 7:00 included homemade donuts. 

I guess I don't fool around when I put a party together. I try to have something for everyone - food and activity - but at some point I do find myself just let it all go and trusting people to take care of themselves. And when this happens, I am gifted this magic of watching people meet someone new and engaging in a conversation they hadn't expected. There was a point last night when it just felt like everyone (including myself) had sort of settled down, and a core group of people remained long enough that three dioramas were made, a group Garage Band song was begun, a spoken word performance was given (courtesy of Cara Wick), some expert Manhattans were mixed up by Mat, and some collective brainstorming and intention-setting took place about what 2011 was going to bring. All in all, a pretty amazing way to spend a Saturday night.

. . .

I am writing this from the Wyndham Gardens hotel near the Philadelphia airport. Despite not getting very much sleep last night, I had to get up at about 7:30 to get to a morning flight to Hartford, Connecticut, to spend a few days with my mom. My 90-year-old grandfather - her dad - passed away last Sunday - and I wanted to come and help her clear his apartment. The plan was to arrive at Hartford tonight, but the plane took off late and I missed the connecting flight, so no dice. I got a hotel voucher, though almost decided to stay at the airport since I'm heading out so early tomorrow. But then I thought - well, a hot shower would be nice, and to be horizontal for a little while, and hey maybe I'll get a little sleep while I'm at it.

It's already almost 1:30 in the morning again, though, which means in about three-and-a-half hours my bedside phone will ring to wake me up. Oh well. Such is the strange limbo of airplane travel, which somehow is tricking me to believe that I am still on the road, driving for hours at a stretch, on my way to the next workshop. 

It's been an interesting couple of weeks at home. Two catering jobs have kept me busy and I've been doing some mental organizing around a new business venture but in a certain way I've felt somewhat anchorless, and what's surprising about this is that I'm actually enjoying that. I don't feel panicky and lost, don't have that (for me, familiar) nebulous but nagging anxiety about the what next of it all. At the moment, I feel like something is guiding me from within, some internal rudder that I can't quite name or locate but which I nevertheless sense in action. 

This is such a relief, and - to me - a mark of an important shift happening. A long clung-to self-doubt or under-formed self-confidence being rubbed away at last, and something new taking up this real estate instead. I don't quite know what it is, but I know how it feels - there is something of purpose and joy and strength and trust and a willingness to get my hands dirty and my feet moving. What it will all lead to remains to be seen, but I see now that it isn't so much the "what" but the "how" that matters, and if I can allow myself more freedom to move without judging what I'm moving toward, without inflicting unnecessary questions about what my motivations are or what the outcome should be, then I am doing alright. 

I am feeling kinder to myself these days, realizing that there will be moments of revelry and revelation, and other moments of lackluster and limbo, and it's not so much about good or bad but about what I do with it all. So tonight, in the waystation of an airport hotel, I am seeing the beauty in small toiletries and a message on a pillow, and finding myself grateful for hot water and a chance to get horizontal, to rest up before the next leg of the journey.

 

In my other life, my catering life, there is a certain kind of order-making I have become accustomed to and that I am constantly trying to improve on. There are lots of lists to make and check off, of course, and there is the matter of timing - the menu development, the shopping, the preparation, the transport to the event site, the set-up, the execution, cleanup...there are these concentric hoops to spin through to get to the next order of business. 

It's interesting how different this can be from the sprawl and mystery of creative writing, but so much of it has to do with having an outside influence - the client - directing the nature of the event and the desired outcome. So it can be quite simple, getting from A to B in a series of steps all pointing to that outcome. It's not that there's no wiggle room - I'm often the one coming up with the menus, and I think in certain ways influencing how guests are experiencing the event - but there are definitely defined borders. Budget constraints, a date on the calendar, head count, a start and finish time - these are all useful guidelines to help me move through the production end of things with efficiency and purpose.

And as much as I am a person who resists structure, I welcome these catering events because I also see that they pull from me a combination of extreme focus and intuitive way-finding. During the shopping and prep time, it's all about things being under my explicit control, but once the event gets rolling, it's about staying clear-eyed amid the confluence of personalities and environments that I get barraged with as soon as I roll up and start unloading my car. It's showtime, and so this is a wonderful exercise is dancing with the unknowns of what I'm walking into that has nothing to do with the menu I planned.

Yesterday, I had a blast catering an all-day tribute to Hanukah at IDEO's San Francisco office. The guest count was about 80, and I had 5 dishes to serve, in staggered fashion, throughout the day. I'd spent the previous day-and-a-half cooking, staying up quite late the night before doing some test runs of the Cajun potato latkes, so I was excited to actually get the party rolling. I had tremendous help from Stefanie L. (who had also been so instrumental in helping me prepare for my trip), who came to my house at 7 in the morning to help cart down food to our cars. Then off we went, arriving at the office and setting up shop. The first order of business was to make about 100 blintzes - definitely an into-the-fire exercise for a non-morning person such as myself. But I had the crepe batter ready to go and by 9, people started trolling by the kitchen to see what was up, and dug into the blintzes hungrily. This continued well into the afternoon, as we moved through the latkes, beef brisket sandwiches, butternut squash soup, and finally - the piéce de resistance - cinnamon beignets. 

I have never made donuts in my life, and now I know just how bad they are for you. But OMG, totally freakin' yummy.

I want to tell you how satisfying it is to feed people. To make food that honors tradition and culture. To do something that at the outset feels a little bit like an outrageous task but becomes manageable by breaking it down into a series of perfectly reasonable steps. To see the look on people's faces when they are curious about a new experience and are delighted to be guided through it. And to have people enjoy the literal and figurative fruits of my labors. 

We wrapped things up at about 3:30 and got a big round of applause from the office. I was slightly embarrassed by the attention but - I can't lie - ate it up, too. When I headed home, the sky had the most remarkable mottled texture, and I found myself consciously feeling great - lucky, full, free, alive. It was one of those moments where you just land in the solid center of yourself and think, "Hey, I have it pretty good." And I did. And I do.

This blog has been a great vehicle for me to tell stories, and to tell them from a more direct and literal perspective. The writing is a bit of a departure from my poetry blog (www.papayamaya.blogspot.com), which - by its nature and intention - examines subject matter through a more literary, metaphorical lens. I see the connection between the two, though, in that they address both the seen and the unseen, the surface and the underpinnings of that surface. And I'm fascinated by the relationship of these things - the physical goings-on and the narratives behind them, the connection (or, in some cases, the disconnection) between inner and outer experiences.

The one thing that remains consistent between these two blogs, though, and these two kinds of writing, is the choice-making that happens in terms of what to keep in and what to leave out. I recognize that despite my instinct to tell you - in these tales from the road - as much as I can from the vantage point I'm looking at, there are details - physical, emotional, psychological, spiritual, and on and on - that I have left out. 

Sometimes that leaving out is because I'm not sure exactly how to share. Sometimes that leaving out has to do with respecting the privacy of those who are in those stories. And sometimes it's just me needing to reserve a space for something that's just for me. 

It's strange, to be so candid and transparent in certain ways and also to feel such reserve in others. 

Of course, this is exactly what happens in real life. We can't, and don't, tell everyone every little detail filtering through our brain. We don't necessarily know how what to do with loose ends, or stories that don't have us performing well, or doing well, or feeling good. We often pick the parts that are "safe," that are translateable or might be relevant to someone else. We pick stories with a certain roundness to them - a beginning, a middle, and the turn toward a satisfying finish. We pick stories with lessons, with discoveries, with epiphanies. We don't necessarily opt for stories of loss, or frustration, or fury, or uncertainty, or even stories of tremulous new beginnings. 

I recognize that I am constantly moving back and forth between disclosure and discretion. Part of this has to do with audience, and locating content that can resonate with a wide variety of readers. Another part has to do with a kind gestation, allowing things to percolate, to take shape, to reveal their identities as slowly as they need to, before I pluck them into use. And then there's that part of me wrestling with my own life, shaking it free, re-arranging the furniture, finding how and what and with whom and where to turn toward in terms of building and deepening the story I am living and breathing in right now. That's the part that has been necessarily private, and it is also the part that is the hardest to put into words.

It's a tough call sometimes. I re-read something of these entries and think, "But I didn't say anything about..." And even now, writing this, I feel like I'm talking circuitously but not really saying much. Like I'm admitting there are some things I haven't shared and then I'm STILL not sharing them - that seems kind of mean.

I know you understand. And I know this is part of a larger story about how we live our lives, and the way in which we're constantly moving in and out of experiences, and colliding with people, and colliding with ourSELVES, and sometimes we just don't know how to express everything we're going through, and not every detail makes sense, and often there really are NO words to assign to what IS. So there are the stories we tell and those we keep, perhaps, a little more sacredly. Stories we lay gently into the great storehouse, the pantry of us. That faintly lit room we return to, another kind of home, where everything lives, no matter how fragmented or full, peaceful or raging, sensical or impossible. The place where we contain everything, and everything contains us.

The past few days have been a wonderful mix of reflection and engagement, equal parts inner and outer. I've been doing some gathering from my trip - I've put together a slide show with music, have started to piece together the videos I took along the way, have been receiving submissions for the anthology I'm assembling, and also put some of my own papers in order to begin the process of putting the writing I've done during the workshops in one place. This part of re-entry has been necessarily solitary, and I've had long stretches of silence and stillness which have really fed me. And then, in between all of these quiet activities, I've spent some time with friends - reconnecting over meals, catching each other up.

I keep reminding myself that it's okay to slow down, not pack too much in, not hurry, not overextend. I was leisurely about my unpacking, even - took several days to put everything away - and have definitely been leisurely about the errand-running. I guess I'm trying to be careful about doing too much top-loading of my list of to-do's and not paying attention to the list of what-would-feel-good's. I'm probably erring on the side of ease, the path of least resistance, but I'm realizing that instead of my usual self-flagellation about this ("Maya! Don't be lazy! Get some shit done around here!") I'm treating myself much more gently, with a greater sense of spaciousness. It's remarkable what this kind of self-generosity does to tamp down what feels, now, like a false sense of urgency and "productivity." I see that if I don't burden my conscience with "shoulds," I take way better care of myself. And I actually enjoy the process of finishing something - the beginning and the middle of it, not just the end.

. . .

On a whim, I said yes to a Thanksgiving invite from Carla B. in Spokane, and instead of muscling through the 16-hour drive (which I was actually considering), a drive that likely would have involved a high mountain pass requiring chains for my car, I decided easy was the way to travel, too. So I found a not-too-outrageous fare and yesterday took off at 9 in the morning, made a quick stop in Seattle, and got to Spokane at about 12:45 p.m. Carla had her once-yearly open house for Zena Moon, her candle business, so I got to meet the small flood of people that came streaming through her home. There was such a feeling of festivity here - maybe it was the way she had set everything up, or the fact that it was nearing freezing outdoors, or that it would be dark by 4:30. Whatever it was, it was wonderful to touch down here and extend the coziness that I'd felt for the last couple of days in my own house.

This afternoon, we went to a Gonzaga Women's basketball game. They were playing the very highly ranked Stanford University Cardinals, and though I don't totally follow college basketball (I'd rather be playing than watching), I loved the spirit of the hometown crowd, their focus and intensity. It was a great game - Gonzaga only lost by 6 points - and everyone was so excited that the players had done so well. You could tell people would be talking about this for awhile, and that in general the team was a real source of inspiration and pride. We had unbelievably good seats - just a row back from where the team sat - so you could see every sweat bead, every sigh, every smile, every tiny gesture of the players during the team huddles. Very, very cool.

. . .

I'll finish with word about flying, and the title of this blog post. 

In my previous life, the one I had before I left for this trip, I always stayed as small as possible whenever I had to fly anywhere. I don't mean "small" in size although that was true, too (squishing my tall self into those plane seats), but more in the way I handled myself. I kept myself contained, quiet, unobtrusive. I don't know why - I guess because I just usually wanted to get the flight over with, the whole airport experience on either end of it. I saw these as way stations to whatever lay on the other side, the "real" trip that I was on. I never really considered these elements of travel as part of the whole experience and in fact, saw them devoid of any richness or reward. 

But yesterday, I felt - very acutely - how my trip across country had changed me. For one thing, I did not get the usual anxieties, the little stresses I give myself every time I went away about the alarm not waking me, or the train to the airport being late, or not packing the right things, or about weather delays. And when I got to the beginning of the security line, I didn't get annoyed about removing my shoes or taking out my computer or my ziplock back full of liquids, or the fact that I had to take off my sweater before going through the scanner. At the gate, I didn't get annoyed that the plane was coming in late, and that this meant a much shorter window to catch my connecting flight. Instead, I found a seat in a gate across the way and actually had a conversation with someone else who was waiting for their flight to take off. At first, when I sat down, I had avoided making contact with the young man next to me. He looked...I can't explain it except to say combat boots and a long black jacket and a slightly bruised left eye. He seemed like someone I should avoid. But when he spoke to me, asking if I knew anything the delay, his voice was soft and sweet, his conversation easy and open. He seemed happy to talk to someone, to commiserate. 

Eventually, the plane arrived and we parted. As we were taxiing and taking off, the toddler sitting behind me was unsettled and crying. It continued for the next hour but I found a way to tune out, busying myself with a crossword puzzle. At first, the clues were impossible to figure out. I scanned the entirety of the puzzle and thought, "I don't know any of these answers." But then there was one that I did know, and I filled in those letters. And from those 5 or 6 filled-in spaces, another answer emerged. And on it went. And after awhile, the puzzle began to fill itself in. It turns out I knew more than I thought. 

We got to Seattle with just enough time to spare to make the connecting flight to Spokane. I was one of the last people to get on. There was a seat between mine and the man sitting on the aisle. I settled in, looked out the window quietly. But then, again, as the flight was taxiing and taking off, we began talking. The conversation started simply as an exchange of information about where we'd been coming from and what we were doing in Spokane: he was flying home from a business trip to Newark, I was visiting a friend for Thanksgiving. But after 45 minutes, we'd gotten down to a softer, more porous layer. He told me about his father's death 13 years before, and I could see in his eyes, in the way that he spoke, that it still shook him. He told me about cancer and the year it took his father to die, and how he hadn't seen him at all. He told me about going to the funeral, and the drive he'd made from Florida to Washington, and what it had been like to go through the Midwest, grieving. 

It swelled me, that conversation. I think it actually made me a better person. It reminded me - again, and unambiguously - the rich topography that lies between two people once they decide to open the door and let the other in. It showed me the difference between exchange and engagement, and how intentional, deep listening can bridge practically any divide. And it revealed to me that smallness and self-seclusion - that habit I've had for years of stepping outside of experiences to give myself the illusion of comfort - is actually a kind of dis-location. It diminishes my seeing, my learning, my spontaneity, my perceptions of others. And it creates a certain disharmony with the environment I'm in. In fact, that separation can actually perpetuate discomfort, reinforcing that distance instead of dissolving it. 

It's amazing how 4 hours can teach you so much. It's amazing how the world opens just as wide inside the plane as underneath it.

It's been snowing here, a little blanket of white covering the sidewalks. And it's very cold today, somewhere in the upper 20s. Something about this kind of cold unlocks my pores, sharpens my senses. And there's nothing quite like seeing my breath billowing in front of me to tell me how very much alive I am.

I am writing this from my living room couch - with its familiar middle-cushion sag - next to the window which lets in good light and at the moment, sounds from a construction project across the street. It's a little funny to be home these past few days - I've done most of my unpacking by now, and hauled up some things from the garage which I'd kept in storage while the sublettors were here. I say "funny" because, of course, it's so easy to slip back into routine, settle into the spaces I occupied (physically, energetically) before I left, but that I'm finding myself paying closer attention in terms of navigating the day more intentionally. ("Intention" feels like such a California word to me, not to mention "energetically," so forgive me my slightly wishy-washing phrasings - there is just no other way I can think of to put it, though). 

"Funny" too because I'm looking around at my stuff here and thinking how much easier it was to pare my things down to whatever fit in the car, as opposed to what fits in a house. Whatever I'd put in the garage (extra clothes, paperwork, miscellaneous personal items) seems superfluous now, and putting it away felt kind of silly. I mean, if I didn't need it on the road, I wonder if maybe I don't need it at all. I can imagine going through my house ruthlessly, removing anything that isn't of use. But then, why live here at all? Is the television of use? The coffee table? The bar stools in the kitchen? How much less do I really want to live without?

The truth, for me at least, is that things - especially things that are more aesthetic in nature or reflect a personal style - give me a lot of comfort. I like the bright orange chair in my dining area. I like the dioramas I've made that are on my walls. I like the bookshelves and the striped beanbag chair and even the guitar that stays mostly unplayed by the bedroom window. 

I realize there are no rules about having to choose one way of life over another. One doesn't need to be either a nomad or a domestic. The world is simply not black and white, ever. So I see that I don't have to go deforesting my house, or whittling my life down to a single carload. What I CAN do is find a way - if both of these existences give me juice - to move back and forth between each one. To craft a life where fluidity and movement are not departures from the norm, but are threaded into it. 

. . .

Here is the beauty of coming back to a familiar place: my family. I had a ridiculously good time the other night with my niece and nephew. Teia was definitely a little guarded about my re-appearance at her dinner table, but she did let me take lots of pictures of her and was generally pretty giggly. And Eli was sprightlier than ever, and so grown up! We talked and played and zoomed around the house and I felt such connection with him. And my sister, though a little under the weather, nevertheless was a treat to be around again. 

After much unpacking and putting away yesterday, I went on a long bike ride looping around the city. This is the other beauty of returning, really knowing this place that I live in, having such a strong orientation with it. I wish I'd had my camera with me, because the view of the ocean coming up over the lip of Skyline Boulevard was just spectacular. 

After I got back, I gathered my forces again for the trip to Trader Joe's. And it really does take some fortitude to go. There are busy streets on the way there - people following their own rules about driving or crossing intersections - the bumper car tango in the parking lot, and the mayhem inside the store itself. I thought I was picking a good time to go, but apparently 4 in the afternoon is like the gridlock of shopping. 

Oh well. I made it through. Came home, unloaded, had a bite to eat, and then whisked myself off to women's pick-up basketball at the rec center nearby. I hadn't been on the court in months - the back surgery had waylaid me, obviously, and this trip of course - but I was delighted that I wasn't entirely out of kilter. In fact, it was like that proverbial bicycle memory - holding that ball in my hand returned me so immediately to a part of myself I know intimately, and that was another kind of homecoming, too. I ran around for about an hour-and-a-half, sweaty and very, very happy. 

Today is about the beginnings of headway - in the piles of paper from my trip that need organizing, the slide show I'd like to put together, the logo I'm fashioning for my collaborative project with Laurie W., various and sundry email communications, the beginnings of my errand list, and - if I'm feeling ambitious - a trip to the gym to begin working on my other, more tangible muscles.