Somewhere between the second star to the right and straight on till mourning, I left Bend and landed here. Parts of myself remain in transit only to return when I sleep hard enough to pull the island across the country till the shores of South Beach kiss the sidewalks of Wall and Bond.

I’ve never lived anywhere as wild and merciless as the Pacific Northwest. Much like my second marriage, it was seductive, charming, gorgeous, untamable, uninhabitable and at times prone to fiery violence. There’s also a shared dark history; the ugly underbelly no one wants to consider. For the record, I was never interested in turning a blind eye. Shame is simply an impenetrable fortress. So the fences got taller and rent along with home prices skyrocketed. There might as well be a giant sign next to the welcome mat shouting Keep Out. I told you for years it was loud in there. Maybe now you’ll understand it was you who wasn’t listening.

My last walks through downtown were haunted not only by the past lives I’d lived over that decade, but by echoes of the place she’d once been. Part of me wanted to change with her; to stay there hiding in the ash, cinder cone and sage brush, to dissolve and re-emerge together. But one night my guts sank, along with my heart, as I realized, no matter how much I’ll always love her, she was incapable of loving me back. Besides, once that self-serving martyr took over, there was zero hope of boundaries or sanity, let alone sanctuary, ever being restored. The only condition more dangerous than covid or wildfires are insatiable egos.

Everything beautiful has its price. I’ve been wrestling with what I can and can’t afford ever since the snowy, sunlit morning I drove away from the street I’d called home for over a decade. I didn’t want to live the rest of my life hanging onto to slivers of something good by my fingernails. Claw marks wreak of desperation. So I let go with love.

Landing in pastoral purgatory has its perks. A fenced in yard, pretty rooms, anonymity, a kitchen you can dance in as opposed to the glorified pantry, and plenty of nearby nature. The Blue Ridge mountains are the vintage denim of peaks and valleys. Soft, faded, quiet and just irresistible enough.

In six months I’ve done exactly what I came here to do; assessed and asserted exactly where I intend to put down roots. The compass behind the belly button window is the only expert we ever need to consult. Once again, I’m listening and therefore trusting it’ll all work out.

Even the things that fall apart, biodegrade or disintegrate under years of tears have all actually worked out exactly as they were supposed to. I believe that now more than ever. My fifteen year old self finally understands what Buddha was trying to explain when he told me to keep moving and be still. I can’t help but laugh at how long it takes to stumble over light.~

Anyway, here we are. Sweet dreams xo