By bike, by horse, by word, by foot...
🇨🇦 in WA // iPhone always
A freshly scrubbed perspective is the surest window to magic. xo.
I check real estate on a near daily basis. California's Central Coast... The Bay Area... Victoria, BC... And sometimes a little further. Some of it's practical research. But mostly it's just dreamy day wanders from the comfort of my couch. Because the truth is that Washington is the sort of place it would be REALLY hard to leave. Maybe even impossible. But....if I suddenly find myself in a position to own two homes (or more 😏) you better believe I'll be ready!
This scene is like nature's ink-blot test. Every time I look, I see something a little different.
I snapped this selfie knee-deep in lake water, in my favourite of all the states I've visited, in my favourite of all the states I've lived, on a random Tuesday in an oh-so-challenging June, and the sun shone and shone and shone and shone.
At the edge of a scorching hot day, in the shadows at the edge of the bay, it is dreamy and cool and the seals slip in and out of the sea. She chases her ball. You tilt your chin to the breeze. The sun sets.
As my body rises up in what feels like its greatest rebellion yet, I thank God and the flowers for my husband, for my life. What would we do without those who lift us when we can't? Seriously. WHAT. WOULD. WE. DO. I imagine every day what this would be like if I'd not been born where I was born, to the family who raised me. If I didn't possess whatever strange sparkle I possess that called out through the darkness to @matthewjay. Those who struggle with chronic illness might relate to the overwhelming unworthiness I feel when I can't emerge from bed, when I can't participate in the day, when every day the cultural quantifiers of success, productivity, contribution, and belonging inch ever further away. What do we offer as thanks when we have nothing left but our grateful hearts?
I've been getting messages: "Where have you gone?" "I miss your posts." "Please post." "Is everything okay?" And I wish I could muster up the energy to describe the sadness I felt when Instagram stopped showing my photos to you in real-time. How it affected me, perhaps deeper than it affected most, because for so many years I'd poured my heart into this community, sharing my life as it happened, and sharing yours, too. "Your posts don't show up in my feed anymore," said my husband, said my husband who I met on Instagram, said my husband who I'd probably not have met if Instagram THEN were Instagram as it is NOW. "I don't see your posts anymore," say people who've followed me since I first joined in 2011, say people who I've followed for more than half a decade, say people I've watched grow and hurt and broadcast beauty--both epic and mundane--from every corner of the earth. "Why don't you post like you used to?" Because I feel little joy shouting into the void. Because I see the same handful of people every time I open the app. Because algorithms don't know better. Because newcomers are having a great time, but those of us who've been here the longest are not. And life....well, life is too short for that. xo.
I got a little nostalgic this morning, looking back at photos from this day in 2014. We were on the road from California to North Carolina, and I'd just seen a single glorious elk in Grand Canyon National Park. "What an adventure...." I thought, wistful and restless. And then I saw this. Here. Today in 2017. Two minutes from our house. And I felt a little silly.
Every day: Something wilts and something blooms.
In May of 2012, 2013, 2014, and 2015, my life revolved around moving. My mind was on selling a house or picking a house or packing a house or asking--always asking--where is home? I'm not sure I ever answered that question, but somewhere along the way I stopped asking. I stopped asking and I stood still.
I've lived and explored in some beautiful places. But never have I breathed air like here. "Do you smell that?!" I squeal, when the sweet Christmas of Douglas fir fills my nose. "Do you smell that?!" I squeal, when sunshine and rain mingle. "Do you smell that?!" I squeal, when the salt air curls up from the sea. "Do you smell that?!" I squeal, when it smells like absolutely, gloriously nothing at all.
You're one in a million and one of 8 billion. You're a shining treasure, a fabulous snowflake, and an essential piece of something so much greater than you.