On Coming Home


I've noticed a pattern emerge when I follow what I now call Crazy Intuitive Hits, such as the idea for the Indie Kindred Summer Tour. I can often understand ahead of time just enough Reasons Why to say yes and get us into it, but it's not until we're well on our way (or even until we've reached the other side) that I really unpack all the Reasons Why we really needed it. 

We were crossing Utah for the first time when I realized one of those reasons.

Sometimes we need to travel a distance on the inside that is only possible by traveling on the outside. It's not going to happen from the living room couch. 

And I surrendered to letting every time and place and person move me, to letting myself be rearranged in whatever mysterious ways awaited. 

Today is my second day home. There are dentist appointments to attend and suitcases to unburden and nothing much to eat besides tea and fresh scones. But more than anything, there is a feeling of having changed and wanting our sweet home here to reflect that, to hold it and to be a safe harbor for another travel-heavy season ahead.

So the girls and I are rearranging furniture and clearing out all we have outgrown, all that has served its purpose and creating sanctuary, one box and shelf and cupboard at a time. I'm still waiting for more words to come and needing to pull photos off my camera, but those things will come. After the groceries.

I won't be here long! I'm off again in a couple weeks to the Pacific Northwest. Join me for a game-changing retreat on the Oregon Coast, or for an Indie Kindred screening in Seattle or Portland

Four Years

Four years ago today I arrived in Brooklyn with my family. It was snowy and cold, and they were working on the power on our street so the building was dark when we entered. Neighbors heard us come in and greeted us in the hallway, putting flashlights in our hands. The girls were 3 years old and 4 months old, and all three of us had stomach viruses and colds simultaneously. I had been sick with one thing after another for the four months since Lucy's birth, and I struggled up the stairs to our third-floor walk-up feeling so weak.

We didn't know if it would work out, or if our Urban Living Experiment would crash and burn, sending us back to the suburbs with our tails between our legs. I didn't know what I would write, or how I would find the time around caring for the girls, just that I had to write. Something. Sometime. I didn't know if I would make friends or if this big city would eat my hopeful and innocent self alive.

Today I feel very quiet, the way you get when you're observing a sacred day. I am full of remembrances and I feel this, I don't know, significance I guess, around every small moment from then until now. If anyone had told me four years ago all that would happen and unfold in these few short years, I would have had to lie down--the weight of my disbelief would have been too heavy to bear.

My gratitude now is equally large, for this city, for the friends who brighten my days and the community that lights up my nights, and for who I get to be here. For all the ways that trusting ourselves led us truly, like following an inner north star. For finding a right place with which to share my life, which for me was every bit as important as finding a right person with whom to do the same.

I love you, New York.

Wherever you go, there you breathe

Diana+, Cross-prossessed Velvia 100 film

The air smells differently in other places, she reminded me.  I knew just what she meant the other morning as I stared down long lines of headlights. How often do they see a pedestrian in these parts?  A runner that's not in the gym or on the special, designated paths?  I thought about all those morning commutes, all those wheels, the windows and doors and metal that house their people everywhere they go.

I ran up a hill and thought, this is how it smells without oxygen. 

I'm taking deep breaths and inhaling every detail in this once-home, now-destination.  Seeing it with the eyes of one who has been away, pondering the places we come from, the places we go and the gallaxies that live inside that small word: home.