Saturday, July 10, 2004
I'm slowly coming back to myself, and even more slowly entering my world in Seattle. Everything here feels too big, too loud, too much. But not quite as much as it did last week. Funny how we change, all the time. Four years ago, I was living in New York, the country's capitol of concentrations of color and swirling bodies, noise, fast-damn pace and everything important. NOW!! When I came back to Seattle for my first visit after moving there, my brother kept saying, "Slow down. Stop walking so fast!" But I had adjusted my heartbeat to that city's pace, and it moved fast. But that's the funny thing about New York. Everything moves so fast, even the need for that city. By the time I moved away (three years ago, this month), I had just about drained my desire to live at that pace. I missed seeing the sky. I missed hearing birds in the trees. I missed the sound of quiet out the windows. And so I left. Seattle seemed like such a sweet little town in July of 2001.
But everything changes. That's the only truth I know.
Because here I am now, thinking that Seattle is just much too loud for me. There are too many people, too many smells, too many choices. At heart, I'm just a small-town girl, more and more as I grow older. Which is funny, because I've only lived in one small town. Grew up in Southern California, where the car reigned supreme. But even as a little kid, I knew something was wrong. Even though I had never seen that many of them, I longed to see trees. And really, should the cement of the sidewalks and the color of the sky be the same? Then I went to school in Tacoma, which smelled perpetually like a wet paper bag full of sauerkraut. At least this time there were pine trees. And then New York. Where life is like dog years, so even though I only lived there for four, it feels like 28. It's where I grew up, actually. London for a year--another big city. Sleepier, certainly. But still, that choking smoke from exhaust pipes and strangers on the street. Time in Europe. More New York. And now Seattle.
There were the five years on Vashon, and more and more, that place is calling my name again. It's the same size as Manhattan in width, and two miles longer. Only nine thousand people live there. Not one of them a single man, unfortunately. That's part of what drove me away when I was 30--because I'd never meet a man who didn't mud bog on the weekends and lived with his mother unless I moved. And I also left because I had never really lived by the time I was 30. This, another story. I'll never regret my time in New York.
But I love the fact there isn't a single stoplight on the entire island. There are four or five stop signs on the main highway, but that's it. People know each other there. That's part of what I hunger for, again. The way people care for each other. I remember two summers ago, when Sharon and I were on our cross-country trip, and we had stopped in Pierre, South Dakota for a day. We stayed with her childhood friend, Stacey, who had lived in that fairly small town for most of her adult life. I asked her if she ever minded it, only knowing so many people, and she looked confused. "No. I like it. People can't cut each other off on the road, because they know they're going to see each other at the grocery store the next day. And you want to stop and talk to the guy who runs the gas station, because he's your only source for fuel." She talked in a low, soft voice, which came from deep in her body. Her two children were asleep inside the house. We were sitting in the backyard ingesting enormous root beer shakes, which had cost $1.89 at the local ice cream place. And we were watching shooting stars dance above us in the night sky.
That's what I want now. I've had more excitement in my life than most people. You'd have to be patient enough to sit for days and days, just to hear the stories. And I love the stories. But mroe and more--and maybe it's because I'm closer to forty--I don't really want to live my life for the stories anymore. I don't have anything left to prove. I just want to live in a place that's quiet, to match the quiet in my mind.
So Vashon's calling again. Of course, Andy, Dana, and Elliott are over there, and that's a lure. Tita and I could walk together every evening along Cove Road and never run out of conversation. Julie and I could sit in her beautiful kitchen trading notes and cooking for days and still not be bored. And I could write my novel on KVI beach. Maybe I'm ready to give up on the search for the man anyway. There have been a bunch of men since I moved to New York--serious relationships; funny flirtations; long-distance crushes; and some inappropriate stories. But Seattle doesn't seem ready to reveal my match. And I think I'd rather have that beach than any more blind dates.
There's Alaska, too. Ah, Sitka, my second home in the world. There's something about it that calls to me, in a low, soft voice, deep in my body. That vastness. The shifting water. The trees, those green trees, that I dreamed of as a kid. And more. But that would be a big leap of faith, to move to Alaska. I've done it before. I live my life by leaps of faith, and I always feel more alive by the time I reach the other shore. But I don't know.
Mostly, I don't know. That still seems like the most honest statement in the world.
What I do know is that I'm here, in Seattle, the night sky dark midnight blue out my window. The cars have stopped racing down the street. Queen Anne has become a sleepy small town for the night. I've been out all day. Bobbing in the pellucid blue pool in Magnolia, with Jessica. Walking slowly through the farmer's market: fresh basil goat cheese; just-picked Rainier cherries; organic dill; beet greens; squeaky cheese curds; a bunch of sweet peas. Meeting Meri for cinnamon doughnuts and coffee, at the place just down the street from her new place in Capitol Hill. Eating crab crepes with avocado sauce, while drinking margaritas, with Tuney and her two friends. And then attending a fabulous dance performance at the Paramount, with one of my students on stage. Five soon-to-be-seniors ran up to me in the lobby, smiling and calling my name, and I almost didn't recognize them. Too soon to think about school. But I gave them hugs and asked about their summers. Then moved away. The day ended with a concentration of color and swirling bodies, people up on their feet in the aisles, and my hips swaying to the beat. "Celebration....." Everybody singing. Everybody dancing. And for a few moments, no thoughts. Just joy.
So where will I be this time next year? I don't know. Where am I right now? Here.
But everything changes. That's the only truth I know.
Because here I am now, thinking that Seattle is just much too loud for me. There are too many people, too many smells, too many choices. At heart, I'm just a small-town girl, more and more as I grow older. Which is funny, because I've only lived in one small town. Grew up in Southern California, where the car reigned supreme. But even as a little kid, I knew something was wrong. Even though I had never seen that many of them, I longed to see trees. And really, should the cement of the sidewalks and the color of the sky be the same? Then I went to school in Tacoma, which smelled perpetually like a wet paper bag full of sauerkraut. At least this time there were pine trees. And then New York. Where life is like dog years, so even though I only lived there for four, it feels like 28. It's where I grew up, actually. London for a year--another big city. Sleepier, certainly. But still, that choking smoke from exhaust pipes and strangers on the street. Time in Europe. More New York. And now Seattle.
There were the five years on Vashon, and more and more, that place is calling my name again. It's the same size as Manhattan in width, and two miles longer. Only nine thousand people live there. Not one of them a single man, unfortunately. That's part of what drove me away when I was 30--because I'd never meet a man who didn't mud bog on the weekends and lived with his mother unless I moved. And I also left because I had never really lived by the time I was 30. This, another story. I'll never regret my time in New York.
But I love the fact there isn't a single stoplight on the entire island. There are four or five stop signs on the main highway, but that's it. People know each other there. That's part of what I hunger for, again. The way people care for each other. I remember two summers ago, when Sharon and I were on our cross-country trip, and we had stopped in Pierre, South Dakota for a day. We stayed with her childhood friend, Stacey, who had lived in that fairly small town for most of her adult life. I asked her if she ever minded it, only knowing so many people, and she looked confused. "No. I like it. People can't cut each other off on the road, because they know they're going to see each other at the grocery store the next day. And you want to stop and talk to the guy who runs the gas station, because he's your only source for fuel." She talked in a low, soft voice, which came from deep in her body. Her two children were asleep inside the house. We were sitting in the backyard ingesting enormous root beer shakes, which had cost $1.89 at the local ice cream place. And we were watching shooting stars dance above us in the night sky.
That's what I want now. I've had more excitement in my life than most people. You'd have to be patient enough to sit for days and days, just to hear the stories. And I love the stories. But mroe and more--and maybe it's because I'm closer to forty--I don't really want to live my life for the stories anymore. I don't have anything left to prove. I just want to live in a place that's quiet, to match the quiet in my mind.
So Vashon's calling again. Of course, Andy, Dana, and Elliott are over there, and that's a lure. Tita and I could walk together every evening along Cove Road and never run out of conversation. Julie and I could sit in her beautiful kitchen trading notes and cooking for days and still not be bored. And I could write my novel on KVI beach. Maybe I'm ready to give up on the search for the man anyway. There have been a bunch of men since I moved to New York--serious relationships; funny flirtations; long-distance crushes; and some inappropriate stories. But Seattle doesn't seem ready to reveal my match. And I think I'd rather have that beach than any more blind dates.
There's Alaska, too. Ah, Sitka, my second home in the world. There's something about it that calls to me, in a low, soft voice, deep in my body. That vastness. The shifting water. The trees, those green trees, that I dreamed of as a kid. And more. But that would be a big leap of faith, to move to Alaska. I've done it before. I live my life by leaps of faith, and I always feel more alive by the time I reach the other shore. But I don't know.
Mostly, I don't know. That still seems like the most honest statement in the world.
What I do know is that I'm here, in Seattle, the night sky dark midnight blue out my window. The cars have stopped racing down the street. Queen Anne has become a sleepy small town for the night. I've been out all day. Bobbing in the pellucid blue pool in Magnolia, with Jessica. Walking slowly through the farmer's market: fresh basil goat cheese; just-picked Rainier cherries; organic dill; beet greens; squeaky cheese curds; a bunch of sweet peas. Meeting Meri for cinnamon doughnuts and coffee, at the place just down the street from her new place in Capitol Hill. Eating crab crepes with avocado sauce, while drinking margaritas, with Tuney and her two friends. And then attending a fabulous dance performance at the Paramount, with one of my students on stage. Five soon-to-be-seniors ran up to me in the lobby, smiling and calling my name, and I almost didn't recognize them. Too soon to think about school. But I gave them hugs and asked about their summers. Then moved away. The day ended with a concentration of color and swirling bodies, people up on their feet in the aisles, and my hips swaying to the beat. "Celebration....." Everybody singing. Everybody dancing. And for a few moments, no thoughts. Just joy.
So where will I be this time next year? I don't know. Where am I right now? Here.
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