back in Seattle

On the way back from getting dumplings and mojitos, Austin said everyone's driving like crazy, and I said it's because of the moon, and you know, the moon would explain my mood this week, too, like I'm overly sensitive but not emo, like cute animal videos make me cry but I'm waking up sort of--optimistic? Like each day I'm full of wait, for many things including wonder, but today was better because of the moon, the moon, because the other day it was almost full, but it turns out “the other day” was a week ago, and today, my phone tells me, the moon is waning.

$10 passionfruit mojitos & potato & bacon jam dumplings

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I've been hoarding tulips and flowerbeds on my phone to share in the spirit of Easter. I’ve seen a lot of bunnies, too, and last time I saw one, I wondered if I had a kid with me, would I have said to them, look, it’s the Easter bunny, just to witness their reactions, and then I thought about the time I asked the Easter bunny to draw a picture of itself, and when I woke up the next morning, I found, instead of a drawing, two cut-out photos of bunnies that looked suspiciously like the ones in our living room cages.

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We hiked at Discovery Park on the first sunny Sunday and I've been back twice since. There are meadows and mud splats, wetlands and seawater slapping on smooth rocks. And there's the divergence of waves overlapping in fine seams, and you can stand in the sand just at the edge and fall into metaphor. Somewhere close by, the sea lions bark, and you can picture them crammed on bobbing piers, and you can contemplate how speech is the convergence of sound and silence, of learning what to say and when to pause.

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Sara reminded me that purpose is a heavy word and why not go after meaning instead, and I guess that's the basis of what Austin and I have been grappling with these last few weeks: where do we imagine ourselves having the most meaningful life? And by life, we mean the immediate next 12 months after our lease is up in July.

In Seattle, I walk several times a week through the neighborhood that goes up and up, and there are bountiful treasures: gigantic and floppy red flowers, snow-capped mountain vistas, really big dogs and tiny ones, too, cats in windows and playthings in front yards and people watering plants and painting their houses. Austin says the sidewalks smell like coffee. In Seattle, presence provides meaning; I take deep breaths here more than I have anywhere else.

There's Nashville, with friends and family and familiar spaces, and then there's Phoenix: still West Coast enough for Austin to reach LA/Seattle. Comparable price to Nashville since Dad and I are doing a little swap. And, of course, the nature reserve in the backyard. The energy of the desert. The nighthawk swooping down, the coyotes bantering. The five-minute walk to the little hill where you can see all of Phoenix twinkling at night. The moon side of me loves the spiritual significance of stories traversing time, of the Native Americans who crossed the reserve, the animal herds and also my younger self, how it was in this exact location that I met Doug, who took me salsa dancing, where I eventually met Austin, who I live with now. South Mountain is a constant reminder to me that life can change through a single encounter, and that even on our down days there is so much very alive within us, waiting to find resonance.