Home Is What I Say It Is

There's something about San Diego. Lately. I've been here two years. A little over two years. And this summer has rushed me like a swarm of joy. It reminds me of the importance of Place.

I've heard people say that if you want to run away, that the You that you were will follow you. You can't escape you. No amount of beautiful geography will erase that. You're You.

I get it. I get what they are getting at. And it makes sense. But that doesn't mean a person shouldn't Just Move.

I never wanted to leave a place because I was afraid of myself.

OK. Maybe that's a lie. When I was young, and a wee little rebel kitten in Fargo, I needed to leave me behind. That little girl was broken. Innocently so. But still. The move was symbolic and necessary. I needed to erase myself. OK. Parts of myself. Parts of myself that weren't actually My Self.

And it worked. Like a charm. My wanderlust fulfilled. For a bit. So even though people say 'Don't move if it's YOU that you don't like,' I kind of disagree. I think sometimes that's EXACTLY what you need to do.

Anyway...

The circumstances weren't as dire this time around. The moments weren't nearly as electric, as we contemplated a move from Phoenix to San Diego. It was more like a dull whine. An internal metronome that progressively got faster as the years past. I wanted to. Needed to. But for no specific reasons. Just Cuz. Was Just Cause. And so we left...

Home IS where the heart is. That's what I believe is really settling with me lately. This summer brings with it waves of content. I feel like I am home. This might seem like piddel-ee-dee to some, but I can't tell you how long I've yearned for that place of rest in my heart.

When I was young, I always wanted to leave. I knew from a very young age that Fargo couldn't keep me. Is there love for my place of youth? Of course. But is it home?  Naw...  And although Phoenix kept me stationary slash still for awhile, I knew it wasn't where my roots would grow.

So Here I Am. I guess that's all I'm saying. That it feels good. I can see our family growing here for years. I can see this landscape filling up our memories. That feels good to be where I want to be. Finally.

I'm also saying that there's some kind of weird internal compass inside of each person and sometimes when it wants to move, it simply wants to move, and it doesn't mean you're trying to run from anything. It simply is what is and no more. Sometimes it's ok to just go there. Because your heart said so. 

Downtown San Diego skyline viewed from Harbor Island

To Fargo, With Love

Time is passing so still now. It reminds me of my childhood, when the days just faded into each other. There were things to do, but nothing urgent.

I grew up in West Fargo, North Dakota. Lately, I've been thinking of my hometown a lot. I'm trying to remember what summer feels like there.

Summers were humid and the air buzzed with the sound of grasshopper and crickets. Trees, large green massive bushels, rustled in the sky. The air was warm, sometimes hot, but as the day trickled into dusk, I remember the most carefree moments in time--barefoot in the grass and the warm street--we moved through space like butterflies.

I remember the thickness of summer, how the clouds of mosquitos swirled over the grass. I remember the river, the color of mud, slowly moving under the train tracks. (The more daring of us jumped from bridge into river with a courageous yelp.) I remember the smell, that earth that dirt those thick knotty woods--a smell that reminds me of days that waft like wind through your hair.

I know this place lives in my bones, but I fear the place isn't mine anymore. I shutter my eyes so tight to feel it. I want to lay in the grass of my childhood home in the country. I want to sit alone underneath the falling branches of our weeping willow tree, that old poem. I want to look across the yard across the highway and see the straight line of the horizon. I used to try to guess how many miles away the horizon lay. The answer itself unreachable--every step toward the line of the horizon moved it one step equally away.

North Dakota is so flat you can see for miles, you can see where the wheat-colored plains hit that cauliflower blue sky. Everything is so still and quiet and understated. If Rothko painted in lighter colors, this would be his emotional landscape. Blocks of color. Farmland and sky. Silence and Thought.

I don't know what it means to be From Somewhere. I know I feel a kinship with people from the area. I know that they know what a tornado siren sounds like, what a basement smells like after a flood, and what the bulbous black silhouette of a watertower looks like at dawn. I know that lately I've been dreaming about old friends, people who make up the building blocks of my soul, people I haven't seen for the better part of a decade, people I may never see again. I know that these words fail my memories.

Fargo is not gone, it continues. But what I know of Fargo is gone. All that is left is these remnants--scraps of paper and old photographs. There is a tender grief.

I think about Dax. I think about this lush landscape that will provide the backdrop to his memories. What will it be like to grow up in San Diego? What scenes, what smells, what sounds will comfort him?

Life is so slow now. So many things are figured out; there is no yearning. I have married my greatest love. I have moved to the town we will raise our children; where we will grow old. I am living my greatest profession, as a mother to my son. Years ahead, these are the days we will be living.

In this space, I've rediscovered the way time passes without checking off days. Maybe this is why I've been thinking of my youth; the feel is so similar. I can feel the lucidity of moments during mundane things like rinsing off plates, dicing vegetables, and tucking in my baby. I notice the color of light and the coziness of a warm room.

Perhaps we are all going too fast to feel. Perhaps when we abandon expectation, we can truly experience the present. Perhaps I'm adult enough to know that each precious moment passes...And so the sadness goes...

I have minutes when I see this Southern California landscape as Dax might see it. The hills, the houses, the flowers, the sea, the sky. I look to the palm trees and the jutted cliffs. In the night I try to see like a child--the lights from the houses in the hills look like clusters of bright yellow stars. I see the beauty he will come to know as Where He's From. I don't pretend though to know how his young free mind will etch this land in his heart.

I don't know how to end this. I suppose there are never any endings. Only middles. In betweens. Until the nexts. And so we go, 

Into the air
with our soaked hearts
One thub away from feeling
Everything At Once. 

Into the Desert

So last week we went to Arizona. I used to live there. Before San Diego. I met my husband there. My father lives there. My stepfamily lives there. I graduated college there.

I lived a lot of life there. Twelve years. A decade plus two years.

I thought I didn't miss her, the chalky desert sun. But I do. My bare arms and bare legs and bare toes do. It felt divine to feel her warm hug again. You know how it feels like spring here? It feels like summer there. I am the type of girl who loves summer too.

We stayed with my Dad and my stepmom and stepbrother in Phoenix, and because they were such awesome babysitters, I felt kind of free and unhinged. Everyday I met with this friend or that. I had long lunches with Kasey and Adralyn and a crew of others and also one of my oldest besties Beth. This is her cuddling the little guy before we went out baby-free for the afternoon.

On St. Paddy's Day, my very Irish stepfam threw a nice little gathering in the backyard...

On Saturday, Dave & I went to the wedding we came for. Weddings are so lovely. I love them because they are kind of the party place for us 30 somethings. Because when you are in high school, you hide in corn fields and people's basements. When you are in college you go to house parties. Then you graduate naturally into bars. And then you all fall in love and the only place you meet to get wasted anymore is weddings.

So I love them. Because people feel goofy. And I love love too. I've always loved love, and weddings are all about that, so I love them too. Especially when you think the two getting married are great for each other because it makes me feel good about life. When they are not so good, I still don't care, because I still appreciate a decent party anyway.

I wish I would have taken a picture of my dress because I, errr....I mean the dress was smokin' hot. But I didn't. So here's a picture of me in my first pair of skinny jeans. The name of them are "Darcy" so I knew I should get them even though I'm kind of hippy in the hip area and have avoided them forever. Beth said to me, "Leave it up to you Darc, you get your first pair of skinny jeans AFTER you have a baby." And that made me feel good.

Anyways, the wedding was full of old friends. It was also at a castle and the bride is all Russian, so much so that the speeches were translated, and our friend the groom is half black and half white, so the mix of people was so fun and random. They even had a shot guy walking around with "Vodka or Hennessey?" Classic.

On Sunday, before we departed, Dave and I felt close and happy and relaxed. He put his hand on my leg in the dark and said with so much feeling that he was so blessed to have me and that it made him feel less alone. In the plane in the night we cuddled close and quiet, with my legs draping his lap, and with our baby sleeping in my arms. We looked into the navy night from our little round window and felt ok. Like love and the little things mattered. Our soft sighs drifted into the sky like goodnight prayers: Keep it light, God, keep it light.

The Late Late Show

I'm writing this now as Dave sleeps, the washer machine whirs, the cats look on questioningly, and the twinkle lights in the tree are the only muted yellow light in the living room. I'm not sure why I'm here now. I guess I can't sleep.

I'm thinking about San Diego. It's been a year now. A year here and not there. In Phoenix. It's been only a year and I know already that I won't ever be moving back there. Although I miss odd things like crazy...our fave pizza place, the ceiling of our old apartment, the summer heat like an oven, the azure blue pools, the clean uncracked streets, the proximity of my father.

But you know when you just know right? You just know...
And we already know. Why? No idea. Do you believe in fate? Destiny? Pre-destination? A guiding light, hand, power, force, god perhaps? I do.

I didn't have a very religious upbringing (thank god ;-)), but I do believe in God. For lack of a better word. That relationship I have with that mystery force is Real to me. Comforting. I shovel prayer into it so we get closer. I Believe. In Love. In Goodness. In Grace. In Truth.

But sometimes after the Small Things lull me, like putting my hands together before sleeping, I contemplate the Big Things...like 'What's it all about? Where are we going?' And while I feel like I know it's going to be o.k...I have to say that, The Truth Is, on the specifics...

i don't know  
you don't know  
we don't know.

Hey There Change-y Pants

I love moving because it feels like you're moving...

You know, like life itself is propelling forward; the very substance of your surroundings morphs. Things are changing. Change is tangible.

I love change, maybe that's why I'd label myself a progressive. I always think things could be better. Even if they're good now, why not strive for Totally Awesome? Conservatism seems to hinge on the very notion that, hey everything's ok, leave it alone you big changer change-y pants. Why you always gotta reach for the sky, can't you be happy with What Is?

Why? Because most of the time, What Is is pretty good, but there's a few tweaks that will prolly make it better. And I Believe. We Should. Make It Better. Always.

------------

My brother is moving here to San Diego, did I tell you that? In a matter of weeks, my younger brother, who now resides in Minnesota with our mother, will be setting up shop in our hilly town, living in a nice corner room in our house for an indeterminent amount of time. I can't tell you how ecstatic that makes me.

I feel so removed. I feel so cut off, limbs like arms beyond my reach. I miss my family. I miss the life that will never be: me baby-sitting my niece on warm Saturday afternoons--her arms reaching for me as I enter through doors. The me that would pick out paint colors for the nursery with my mother. The me that would help my sis with summer garage sales. I mourn for all that.

But one memory I won't cry for now is the me that sees my son reach out for his uncle on any given Wednesday. The me that drinks cold beers with my brother at the table on a Saturday night, while he whips me at another game of cards. The me that knows I'm not completely alone here.

I think that my brother will stay a very long time here in this cool coastal town. And I think we will too. That makes me happy. These roots extend like arms around our hearts.

Little Paper Hearts

I am so avoiding what I have to do right now. I need to be knee-deep in my closet, curled up on the floor, going through boxes I haven't gone through in a year. I need to look at every little picture and note in them and say, "oh how cute, i remember that." And then I need to re-pack it again. Box it up. Move it to the next place. And then, not look at it at all until the next time we move. These little sentiments are so important right?

Sometimes I imagine my children going through my memory boxes of poems and old love letters, little torn and faded envelopes of a past life lived. A life that they will never know of me. A me that they will never see. I imagine them being surprised, maybe even a little guilty for not knowing these little parts of a person they will come to know as mom, Mom, MOMMM!!!!

Then I think of my own mother and her lives she lived before us. Who was she really? I imagine her laughing, beautiful as ever, gliding across stages in her dance leotards. I imagine men loved her and I imagine she enjoyed their attention without effort, being adored came natural to her. But this is the mother I've imagined. In truth, I will never know her as the her before me. What dreams will my children conjure up?

Then, I imagine I've died abruptly and Dave has to sift through my old memories. I'm embarrassed with this. I start to throw away things that cheapen my love for him, like when I claimed to love others before him. What did I know of love then, before I married you my love? I burn these adolescent poems. I imagine as we gather up homes against the backdrop of our new family, with each move, I'll throw away more and more of these cheap little paper hearts. Leaving room only for my one true beating, breathing heart....You.

Moving Blahs and Hurrahs

So we are moving in about two weeks. We rented a house nearby the we love love love. It took us atleast three months to find this house rental. Who knew that the house rental market in San Diego was so fierce? We lost a few houses due to not applying within days of its posting. So we learned to be vigilante. I would be seeing houses within hours of them posting. Other applicants be damned.

Once we found houses to view based on budget range and location, I choose a house based almost solely on intuition. I wait for my insides to go, "Yes, yes, YES...THIS IS IT!  It could be perfect in every way, but if my bells don't go off, I don't move.

Also, Dave and I agreed as a couple that we won't ever try to "convince" the other person to like a house. There were a few I really liked, but Dave wasn't that smitten. The same thing happened vice verse: Dave liked a house or two and I just wasn't feeling it. Conversation over. Next. Until both of us were in agreement (without any nudging on the others part at all), that's when we sign papers. We looked at over 20 houses before deciding on this one. We find that we get the best results when we do that.

In the end though, even with our "system," it's still all a gamble isn't it? Will we like it? Love it? We will be here for at least three years before we start thinking of buying...did we make the right choice? I think so...

Needless to say though, right now I am so excited about it. We've been in San Diego for one full year now, and I can't say that the apartment we live in I'm head-over-heels for. We found this place quickly; we weren't able to use our "system" because of time constraints. And I must say, I've missed our adorable apartment in Phoenix more than once. I am thinking/hoping that this will make us feel more at home here. Better get packing!

An American Tale

I have lived in three places in my life:

1) Fargo, North Dakota (ages 0-18)
2) Phoenix, Arizona (ages 18-30)
and presently,
3) San Diego, California (almost one year)

Now that I live in San Diego, a third location, it's become harder to explain the past to strangers. In Phoenix it was simple. People would ask, "Where are you from?" And the easy answer would be, "Fargo, North Dakota." I grew up there. I moved from Fargo to Phoenix. Point A to Point B. All understood.

I even earned a little respect. In a weird way, Fargo seems exotic to most people in this part of the country. It's freezing and off-the-beaten path. Most people don't know anyone from North Dakota, so already, you earn some cred. In fact, most people don't know anyone whose even traveled there. The best you get is someone who might have traveled through there. So, people are mildly interested. They might even ask you questions.

Plus, thanks to the Coen brothers Oscar-winning movie "Fargo" circa late 1990's, the town name itself strikes a chord of positive nostalgia that most people easily convolute with their feelings towards me. I damn the day that "Fargo," the movie, fades from national consciousness.

But now that I've moved to San Diego, I've lost some of my geographical mojo. When people hear that you've just moved here, the typical question is, "Where from?" Well, I moved to San Diego from Phoenix.

This answer irritates San Diegans. Phoenicians are not a well-respected group of people here in SoCal. Due to their five-hour-drive proximity to each other, most Phoenicians have been vacationing in San Diego for decades. These "Zoni" tourists crowd their pretty beaches, hotels, and restaurants during the better parts of the year. Phoenicians, understandably fleeing the desert during the 110-degree-plus summer days, treat San Diego like their own personal day spa.

On the flip side, most San Diegans, have also traveled to Phoenix at one time or another during their lives due to something unforeseen, like a cousin's wedding or free tickets to a Coldplay concert. When they return, they don't have much nice to say, cept' Phoenix is flat and dry and hot and beige. They feel towards Phoenicians something like mild pity.

So when I tell them I moved here from Phoenix, they politely nod and mumble, "oh." But what they're really thinking is, "What a surprise. Of course you moved here from Phoenix. I sure wish you hadn't. Sigh. Are there more coming?"

Sensing their disdain, I attempt to thwart their perception by quickly adding: "But I grew up in North Dakota."

But this falls on deaf ears. People can only combine two cities at a time for you, not three. You're like a nomad to them--a rootless gypsy.

When your persona is made up of three parts (part plains, part desert, part coast), people don't have any idea who you are. And that makes them uncomfortable.

In San Diego, it's like my North Dakota roots have disappeared. I can't say I like that. I can still feel the bone chill of winter in my teeth. I can still feel the summer sting of a mosquito on my leg. I have a dry sense of humor that I guarantee you came from the bonfires of my youth.

I'm not from Phoenix. I lived there. For over a decade. And yes, it lives in me too. Those hot desert nights seduce me. That pastel sunset leaks into my dreams.

I empathize with those military kids, who when asked where they're from, they say, "I grew up in a military family. We lived all over." We kind of toss them aside, don't we? We consider them unknowable, rootless. We learn that we've learned nothing about them by asking the question.

But I imagine if we did get to know them, over beers and fries and backyard barbecues, these kids are conglomerates of where they've been. I imagine they have pieces of all over etched in their bones. I imagine they themselves feel parts of themselves in each place they've resided. Just like I do.

I realize that where I've been has something to do with who I am, but I haven't learned how to explain these nuances quickly. Perhaps, like the military kids, I'll one day give up trying to draw out the map for strangers. I left my heart here, here, and there too...

Oh never mind. I'm here now. I'm right here...

Cabin Fever

With the holidays tucked neatly behind us, we're disheveled. You are in the next room, clearing your throat and sucking snot through your nose, as you play some loud thing. I pound green tea to prevent the body from giving in to the cold that hovers in our living room.

Alaska: you are so large and dark in the winter. When we first landed, our plane shook in your freezing air. I held my stomach and averted my eyes from the window. When we are sick, we are alone.

At touchdown, we clacked onto the peach shining tile of the new Anchorage airport. Things change, you must have thought. Your hometown, where your heart grew in its palms, grows without you. It mars your memory. I know this because the Fargo from my youth doesn't exist anymore either. It is something else entirely. It is present. I am past. When I visit, its new buildings tell me, I don't belong anymore.

Through the cold window in the car, the night white snow mesmerizes me. I am not speaking as the black spokes of the trees zip past. A dark organic silhouette emerges on the street, lit by the yellow globes of the quiet winter street. There's our moose, sauntering through the streets like a living poem. Only in Alaska...

I am grateful to love your family. Grateful to hole up in the dim light of that cozy cabin. Grateful for the five-day hibernation that felt like a warm hug. Grateful for blankets, tea, Christmas lights, and carbohydrates.

We were so silent together, the five of us. Even the dogs outside barely barked. When Humvee, the sheep, wanted crackers, he butted his head against the window without a cry. The only peep I heard from him was when we were leaving; his thick hooves crunched in the driveway as he galloped after the car.

I saw you unwind there. I'm not sure who needed that more--you or me. Since we moved to San Diego, I've seen you hold that tight rein around your life. Squeezing it so hard your knuckles whiten, your neck stiff. I know you do it for us and I love you for it, but I miss you.

It's temporary. It's temporal. It's necessary i know. But gawd my heart screamed when I saw you breathe. Even as you got sicker and sicker, your nose stuffed and your head clogged, I was still relieved. It meant, to me, your body letting go. Laying down. Sleeping.

When we boarded the return plane, you handed me our tickets: first class. You smiled at me. I punched you. We sat down and you held my hand. I started to cry. You said, 'we'll figure it out.' And we will.

Giving Up On Numbers

It's the pattern of the holidays again. It's the drown of an entire month spent spending, forgetting that last year we said, "it'll be different. we won't ever do THAT again." But we do.

Not that I'm complaining. I love gift-giving. Even better, I love receiving. I welcome this trade. Sometimes I like to just give. However, just getting something makes me uncomfortable. If you get me something, rest assured, I won't leave myself indebted long.

I act out of the fear that people might whisper, "she always takes, never receives." And so I super give back. You won't be chiding me and my friendship skills later. O heck no.

...


Been traveling back and forth to Phoenix the last couple weeks. Dipping myself in my recent past. I drive around, trying to remember if I ever belonged there. I think I did. Once. Twice. Yes. For weeks and months at a time.

I hit a wall though, somewhere near 2003. I wanted to leave the desert. I wanted to forget her hot hug on my neck. Rip her sweaty kiss off of me. I disliked living in her spiky landscape, even if I did it for love.

And so, back there...the old comfort of familiar friends and family makes me oooh and aaah for my old place in the world. There's a chair waiting, their presence reminds me. The table is full and topped with flowers.

But I must be filled with ice. I'm so cold. My heart is closed to this past of mine. Already. It's as if the wound of me leaving was closed quickly, like a zipper. Simple as that.

Yet, I know it's not a stone heart that keeps my eyes dry.

It's knowing I've done the right thing.

...

I saw my niece Nova, her and my sis traveled down from Minnesota. She's so precious. All moving and kind of mumbling and screaming and crawling.

I didn't get enough of her though, and that breaks my heart. It sucks that I can't get myself around it. I can't find a solution and I'm a solution girl. I hate problems without solutions. Especially when it involves not seeing some of the people I love most in the world.

...

On a positive note, since a handfull of my readers mistakenly think I'm thisclose to offing myself: Today was a beautiful day. The components of this prettiness? Painting, music, and chilled oranges. And this too. This moment right here, tapping out prose like a metronome.

Day 111 - Shotgun Blog

I'm feeling kinda bleh about my world lately. This acknowledgement is upsetting.

I know not everything is happy and roses all the time, but I only know that intellectually. The real true person in me says why not?

I feel drowned by work right now. Outside of it, I feel unproductive and lethargic. This acknowledgement is upsetting. I'm not sure how to fix that.

I quit caffeine yesterday. Perhaps I'll actually have more energy. Give my adrenal glands a break. I want to be as pure as possible; I want to see what that mountaintop looks like.

Dave and I are ttc. That's shorthand on pregnancy forums for trying to conceive. I am seriously absolutely rip-roaring ecstatic, like so happy I want to eat my arm. Cross your fingers for us. Send up a prayer.

I have a life in San Diego. Exhibit A? My weekend. Friday after work we met old friends of ours from AZ who now live in Del Mar who we once went to a party with when we first moved here. We met them at Dave and Busters for their friend's b-day party. Our other friend, Remy, who was a groomsmen in our wedding, who recently moved to San Diego for a job, he met us there too.

On Saturday after work, Dave and I met with my friend from the book club and her husband at a cutesy putoosie place in Little Italy for a scrumptitious Italian dinner of wine and pasta. We like totally clicked on our double date and we're ecstatic to have couple friends here!

On Sunday, my cousin invited me to a Chargers game. My first EVER pro-football game. I took the trolley in and her and I enjoyed the blatant displays of testosterone and the sunshine. The Chargers beat the Dolphins. For a second there, surrounding by the screaming masses, I kind of cared.

I think we're gunna be o.k. here.

Day 59 - It's a Long Way Down...

It's been a long day.

I have nothing to say.

Must I really write every day?

Yes, every day.

What if I'm zapped?

Then you must fake it till you make it.

(These are rudimentary rhymes.)

This week this day was

work work work. But today

Today I sauntered down to Harbor Island. I meet seven of my stepfams on the crisp white boat. I love the wooden sound of the dock below my feet. I love the sound of my loved ones voices. I love the lavender and yellow sunset brushed on the glossy water. I love San Diego.

It's slick and misty and pretty on the bay. The dock docks countless boats. A cat emerges from one. The dark slice of the sail lines cut up the sky. The vibe reminds me of lake country, but decidedly sea-style. Instead of pontoons, there's sail boats. Instead of speedboats, there's yachts.

We rock and talk in the belly of the boat as a few finish swabbing the sea off the deck. Then, it's a late night dinner in Little Italy. The scene is Saturday night bustling with hip and happy people in their cotton summer tanks and shoes.

It's Italian for the occasion and the service blows and quite frankly, so does the food. However, what doesn't suck is the company. K and M and T and I kept our table light and fun and laughing. This table talk wiped away my tired and hungry state of mind. I feel blessed that I have hours like these with people like these.

Driving home through the twinkling canyons, I once again remembered why we moved here--

Um, cause it like totally rocks.

Day 57 - Like a Dear in Headlights

My husband flew to Alaska today. He grew up there. But he's not going there to visit, he's going there to fish. That's right. Fish. What??? This is not the man I married. I thought I made sure of it...

I was born and corn-fed raised on the golden plains of North Dakota. Smack dab in the middle of the Midwest. Growing up here, one notices some pretty distinct patterns. Specifically, most of your male relatives, such as grandfathers and fathers and uncles and cousins, hunt or fish. With the same intensity a Midwestern woman plans baby showers, these men plan their seasonal killing excursions.

They pack their guns or tackle (depending upon the target animal), a few coolers of Bud Light, and they bounce away in their dusty pick-up trucks.

My father claims these killing sprees are simply the male species elaborate opportunity to bond, or in other words, to drink. I remember watching an old video of a very young version of my father and his friends, camouflaged in matching tan gear, moving a dead deer by its antlers. I was repulsed and fascinated by this secret club. As a Midwestern girl, you are not invited on these trips, like your same-age boy cousins. Why don't you run along and help your aunt with the dishes?

Thankfully, when my father lost his taste for liquor and also moved out of the region, he also lost his desire to shoot furry mammals. I am relieved to hear my father's genuineness when he sounds as flabbergasted by the whole thing as I am.

The pervasiveness of the hunting culture in North Dakota is overwhelming though. Take, for example, my 11th grade Anatomy class. One day during hunting season, my teacher offered extra credit for bringing in deer hearts. The next day, few students arrived empty-handed.

I remember how nonchalantly the shapeless blubbery masses sat on the long tables. As class wore on, they started to dethaw (most were pulled straight out of parents' freezers), and drops of blood dripped onto the grey tile below. Mortified, I refused to participate when the dissection period began. The frustrated teacher docked me ten points. By then, the pus and blood was everywhere.

So imagine my delight when, during our courtship phase, my now husband recounted his meek hunting tales. While he grew up in Alaska, his father is a born and bred Minnesota man. So, like any good Midwestern father, he takes his son out in the field. With a gun. And teaches him to shoot things.

Much to my absolute joy, Dave never shot anything. Ever. O he went, sure, but either he couldn't bring himself to do it, or he really just never saw ANYTHING. His father would drag countless bucks down the hill on their excursions, but they never died by Dave's bullets.

The one time where Dave had to kill something, it was a chicken. Since he grew up on small farm, it was bound to happen. I'll spare you the details, but I'll tell you this: When Dave tells it, he is noticeably disturbed. The execution left a deep scar and he firmly says no to any future death missions. I hold that story in a little box near my heart.

Fast-forward to present time...

Dave has 'gone fishin.' Apparently, while we covered his hunting preferences, we never covered his fishing ones. An obvious oversight on my part. Although I do realize fishing isn't even NEAR hunting, it must just give me flashbacks to my childhood or something, cause I accidentally threw a little fit.

He assures me it was his buddy's earnest idea. His friend wanted to see Alaska with an Alaskan, and also experience the United States' greatest great outdoors.

Dave sees it as a rare opportunity to do something different, and also a chance for him to see his family. O.k., sure. I get it.

I think I'm hoping he doesn't catch anything. Or if he does, he gets all grossed out by ripped gills and eyeballs, that he throws his rented poles in the pond.

Day 51 - Homely

I sometimes feel like my life is not my own. Like I inhabit it, but it's kind of unreal or intangible to me. Especially now. I remember feeling like this after moving away from Fargo after high school. I just up and left. When the plane touched down in the desert, I instantly started living a whole nother existence. The background scenes, the characters--completely different from before.

When I called up my old friends, I realized the movie was still playing for them. Even though I had left the theater. It's weird to snap your fingers. Change your life. And the beat goes on...

I guess it's the transition stage. The part where you feel groundless. I'm trying to get my bearings; I'm trying to decide who I am here. When I moved from Fargo to Phoenix, I became someone else. Someone better.

Truthfully though, I probably was that person for awhile, but my old circumstances and friends and decisions were on auto-repeat. Because of my geography I never pushed forward (not that it wasn't possible). That move gave me the power to become who I already was. Break free from the destructions and delusions of the younger me.

While older now, twelve years of a person more, I expect the same from this move. Growth. Different than what I needed at age 18, but growth all the same. This is a chance to jump into a more evolved version of the self. I want to embrace her. Say hello.

I want to be more. I want to give more too.

I want to take this clean slate and fill it with fulfilled dreams and loved ones and this place called home.

Day 34 - Where Everybody Knows Your Name

Thank the sweet lord I'm driving to hawt Phoenix this weekend. As much as I adore Dave (and the cats of course), I crave conversations with other members of the human race. Due to our lackluster social life in our hilly new town, we depend almost entirely on each other for entertainment. And while staring at each other and speaking incessantly about nothing much is just a hoot, I need to junkie-inject my soul with some wine and good times with my friends!

(Case in point: The cats often switfly duck out of the room when they see me sauntering down the hallway, mumbling jokes to myself. LOL. At myself. You see?)

(Case in point #2: What about virtual friends, doesn't that count? I talk to you. I think about things to tell you. I've even shared meals and drank wine with you once. You weren't there though. At least not at the same time. And I imagine a shrink would tell me to find three-dimensional friends. 'Words aren't friends,' they might chastise. And I'd rage back defensively, "O they do talk back! Haven't you read my 'comments'?!)

(pauses...clears throat)

Soooo, I'll have you know, in an effort to manifest livingbreathing friends to share time with here (and save myself some obviously looming professional-couch time), I've put in a bid to join a very-hip-looking ladies' book club of twenty&thirty somethings that congregate ever-so-often at some equally hip spot downtown. Perusing their previous reads gives me the giggles--they boast many of my long-time faves!

So I'm smoothing my hair down and putting on my best blouse as I try to win me over some brand new friends. BUT, the problem is, I emailed three days ago to join. And nothing. Not a word. Not a calendar. Not a hello. Not a "here's the next book...see you next Thursday!"

I really kinda sort of want to send another e-mail. I mean, did they not get my first one? How soon is too soon to send another one? Three days? Four? What's the lead time these days on friendship courtship? I mean, I don't want to seem desperate or anything...

But I like totally am.

Day 25 - In Reverie

Yesterday was all red, white, and blue. Independence Day--the day of the year celebrating CHANGE and FREEDOM from the past. It's head-first into a brand new future. Blinded by its brightness. I too crave this, eager to live as my new self, I write here, documenting the beginnings and the ends of things (although I fell a little short this week, I'll explain that tomorrow...for today? A reverie).

Parts of my lovely Phoenix family invited us to their sailing boat soiree. The dock creaked under our feet as we leaped into the shiny white. We slid out of the harbor, and headed with purpose to the bay, slowly rocking over the deep blue mounds of the sea. The conversations moved just as naturally, open-air voices in the clear space.

As our boat anchors, we barbecue, swig from our beers, and share chips from a crock pot. It's all-American as Jim Croce croons from a speaker, misting the ocean air with "She's living in L.A., with my best old ex-friend Ray..." Boats and yachts and mini-cruise ships slide by as we ooh and aah at their lights, cracking jokes about P. Diddy.

As night ignites the charcoal blue ocean with twinkle-light reflections of the shoreline, I feel safe and happy. I enjoy the company and the quaint closeness of our rocking vessel. The scenery awes me; and I think I live here. God bless it.

As the fireworks burst and explode like colorful brazen bombs over San Diego Bay, I think for a minute about my brother. Last year, we sat mesmerized on a cool grassy hill in a Minnesota park, gazing upward at a show similar to this one. My memories weave me in and out of the moment. "Isn't that the way they say it goes..."

We gathered last year with our family at my sister's house. Our amateur fireworks pranced and fizzled on the front driveway, and as drunk and happy as we were, we danced around the lawn like fireflies. The thick humidity (or was it the booze) fueling our rising voices. It's a lump in my throat when my brother texts, "@ stacys 4th party. We miss u out here." A sad reminder of how far away I am.

"But let's forget all that..."

I'm here and I'm happy. And I'm more than grateful to see loved ones out here in this misty city--my new home. When we dock back in the harbor, we learn that a baby boy was born during our seaward celebrations--the newest family member. I like to imagine that little Jack saw the world for the first time at the exact same moment we sat in a line hugging our knees--awe-struck and silent--as the bursting finale lit up the night sky. Brilliant and sparkling and luminous, our faces had no words.

Day 20 - Food Coloring

Oh Today...how you loved me! Wrapped me in your arms and hugged me. You were all sunshine and big trees and flowers. You were farmer's markets and yoga classes. You were fresh fruits and whole grains. You even gave me sunset in the canyon. Oh Today, You were a dream.

After eating a breakfast of hearty cereal with a hot mug of coffee and cream, I made words for the book and then moseyed on down to the local farmer's market--it's every Tuesday in my neighborhood!

Oh the food, the food, the fresh colorful tasty food! A rainbow of tents sold local organic fruits and vegetables, fresh honey and hummus, jams and juices, herbs and flowers. I cash-exchanged for bags of yummy colors and strawberries that remind me of my childhood (the strawberry fields near Fargo...follow the gravel road, grab your basket...pluck them off the vines).

It's pure laziness what I do! Or convenience. We are going so fast. Today, this experience of getting so close to the source of my food reminds me how far away we normally ARE from the source of our food. Grocery stores are huge and fluorescent and how long HOW LONG did it take to get there?

At night, after yoga and the back-to-home stunning sunset drive, I chopped vegetables and boiled wild rice, while popping strawberries in my mouth. I felt utterly fulfilled.

What I need to know, need to remember, is that I always have access to this amount of happiness. It's a choice. I think back to only three short weeks ago; I'm in a funk, anxiety-filled and couch-bound, wondering what the next move was. And I want to slap that girl--'Wake up! You are lucky and blessed and the world is beautiful!'

I know I still have work to do...
But Today, oh Today,
how you loved me.

Day 18 - Bike Around, Bike Around

Energy very very low. I barely squeaked out my exercise this week, but thankfully the new bike saved me on Saturday. Pedaling around, staying present, is a present. I love the soft wind, the lush hills, the lucid flowers, the scuttling geckos across the sidewalk. Everything is so alive. I'm giddy about going slow enough to notice it.

And on Sunday, although staying home and sleeping all day into night enticed, Dave and I and Remy, a friend of ours visiting from Phoenix, loaded up three bikes in my now pristine purple pick-up, and we booked it to Pacific Beach--Remy's old stomping ground. The vibe resonates part college/part tourist/part like totally awesome. I dug it for sure. Lots of funky colorful odd-shaped houses, meandering beach cruisers (yea!), beefy dogs on leashes, ice cream shops, mosiac tile art, and open air bars and living rooms like altars facing the ocean.

All in all, I am feeling more and more at home here. And by home, I mean, like I belong here. Roots down in the ground, Branches reaching into the sky.

Saturday, pics of my neighborhood...

(right outside of my garage :-))

Sunday, Pacific Beach boardwalk...

Day 17 - A Birthday Song

Canyon green lined road, there's more oxygen here with the artsy trees and their gravity-impossible heights. Their bushy silhouettes render like still lifes in the sky. Driving is haphazard on the California cut freeway, winding and grey and free form. It's quaint chaos as Sublime breathes out of the speakers, "It's sooooo nice. I want to hear the same song twice."

At work, the people weave in and out of aisles. I follow them, recommending walnut or honey frames, green and blue this or that, and oil paintings brushing out magenta Mediterraneans. When the power goes out, midday in bright yellow sunshine, my whole body relaxes. The actual color of the world is calming, and the actual sound of silence generates an immediate reflex--sigh of relief. We're quiet and real. Let's leave them off for now...

And the world won't.

At home, I think about my sister. It's her birthday today. I try to follow her birthday plans in my head with the clock. Picturing where she is and what she's doing. I make myself a video in my imagination of her laughing; I'm happy to see she's having fun. I am hoping and not hoping Nova will turn herself over today, as my sister wishes via her Facebook post. Can't she wait Stac, can't she wait?

Day 13 - Break another little piece of my heart

I work this graveyard shift tonight, unloading art supplies and new frames, so I kinda feel like I've been twiddling my thumbs all day. Like nothing could be done cause I work at 11:30 at night?! Silly. It's getting dark and my cat Diego is cuddling on my lap, unconcerned by my furious typing.

Talked to some friends and my mom today on the phone. My mom ran into an airline sale for tickets to San Diego from Minnesota; she is buying a ticket for the fall. I can't even express how much I miss her here, there are not enough words. My sister and her new little perfect baby, Nova, my new little perfect niece, I can barely think about without getting teary-eyed.

Moving to California has been a blessing. No doubt. And moving to Phoenix right after high school, I believe, was the right thing to do, life-wise at that time. But when we do things then, at tender ages, like in my case, 18 years old, you can't really quite understand the long-term effects at the time. Twelve years later, at 30, when your baby niece is learning how to crawl and you can't see her--that's when the tears start to choke you.

That's you realize the gravity of your decisions (driveway goodbyes in Fargo, the city still breathes in me) on your future--arms consoling your family with one arm, waving good-bye with the other.

It's when the old and familiar moving pictures of your memories start to change their meanings for you. What was always a carefree and bright moment becomes a harsh definitive moment, suddenly taking the blame for why you can't hang out with your loved ones right now. But i know i know it's obsession and unhealthy to go back there, and worse, by its very nature, negates all the goodness of your relationships now.

But just let me--for today it breaks my heart.

I wish I could stop by my sister's on the weekends, help with garage sales and put my niece to bed. I wish I could meet my mother for lunch or help her paint anything in the house. I wish I could drink twelve-packs in the basement with my brother as we laugh and watch too many DVR'd shows in a row of our fave humor and Discovery shows.

And I don't want to do it on vacation, or in some small span of manicured and planned time frame. I want to do it spontaneous-like, like tomorrow or next weekend. I want it to not have to be meaningful or "spending time" together cause I'm on a plane tomorrow. I just want it to be. Natural. Just cause we want to, when we want to.

I think if they were around, I wouldn't feel so lonely, or better yet, dependent on Dave. And I don't mean I'm missing them in San Diego because I don't have any friends yet, because I felt that loneliness for them in Phoenix too. I have friends in Phoenix I adore, and love spending time with. And I have my dad there, and my step-family. All of which, I have excellent relationships with, fulfilling. But I grew up with/bond with/became best friends with my mom and siblings, and as I get older, my heart/my mind/my entire being crave their companionship above all others (not including husband of course).

I have no idea what the future holds. I have outrageously giddy hopes (not completely fanciful as they've been slightly encouraged and supported by these very family members), that there might be a gradual migration to my part of the country over the years. I am planted here. I know that. It's the right place for me. I know that. And as I wait for them (god willing, god willing), I will go to them as often as my pocketbook can stand it. Because that's what you have to do. When you can't have it all, you have to be there anyway. I want Nova to know me. Dear God, I want Nova to know me.