"I'm not running away from myself; it's just myself ran away from me- so I am travelling, again."
The leaves on the oldest tree in my neighbor's yard; in all its' enormity and grace; are an unspeakable, stunning scarlet. This is the kind of color that seems, almost, to have texture. To radiate light, in and of itself. Its' brilliance is the kind we find in the heart of nature, but have been trained to think of as chemical- it's interesting how the most natural things, not unlike that we find in the deepest seas, can often seem supernatural.
Spring in Northern Virginia is a masterpiece among Mother Nature's firework shows; something I've spent many lucky seasons tucked right in the center of, looking out on the forest from glass walls. And this year, for a short time more, they're my own glass walls. And you know what? While I'm antsy to get back to Portland, now that I know after so much struggle, where I really need to be, and a fair amount of why: I think that today, in the past few days, I've found peace with the time it will take.
And really: I'm glad, when I lean close to the heart of things, that I'll be here during this time. These two or three weeks, four at the outside; spent directly in the center of Spring's opening. Looking out from these glass walls; it's like having a bugs-eye view from inside a wide-flung blossom.
For reasons both obvious and spiritual; reasons which I'm still discovering in awe and gratitude: My health is harder to balance when living full-time in Alexandria. A truth on many levels; and one it took two months of exploration to feel sure of, all the way to core. Sure enough to risk moving again.
A dangerous butterfly effect takes place when you live in the suburbs, even if you have a gorgeous home in the woods and right by the city. Look closely, and you see the spoon theory working in reverse; each simple step becomes ten. So, yes- it's been a little hard to accept that there's no way to transport the numerous pieces of home I've spent the last two years gathering, to Portland - except to do it from the base of a place which demands so much of my energy. (All the shades of paint, mixed and to be mixed; the vintage furniture I spent days tracking down; the lamps I'm making, the forty some-odd pounds of glass panes and fragments; the boxes and boxes of DIY supplies...) But I have my family; which is lucky and sadly rare. Which is something my time away, in Portland, let me see more clearly than all the years they tried (amidst whatever daily chaos) to show me. And I think I've accepted it, how this move will take place, insomuch as I can.
Slowly, at first- and then in a sudden rush of Spring bursting within me: This morning. Waking early, into a feline stretch, the sun just rising. My limbs not sore, a clear throat to talk to my cats; one perched by my head, the other in a tangle of blankets by my hips. In that moment, the sun peeking through my windows as witness, I entered an unexpected grace of certainty. Often I wake into the after-effects of night terrors, but today I woke into a blessing.
I called this place home for eighteen years, with many spans and summers between. And several of my doctors will still be here; this move will be real, but I'll be in Virginia every few months. And I'm glad of that, as well. I'm glad of the balance I've been seeking for so many years, finally beginning to make its' way into not just my thoughts and hopes- but my reality. And best of all: Into the innumerable pieces of me. The fighter cells, the helper cells, the white, the red- glorious color again. Best of all in balance, best of all in this slow, certain grace; the hard-earned bounty of years of trial and treasure-hunts: Balance coming home. Into this, my body.
For millions of tiny, obvious reasons- as well as larger, spiritual ones that I don't think I could express in a sentence or two via journal- Portland breathes health into my grateful, thirsting pores. It's true, of course, that it doesn't just become effortless. But the effort can find grounding, find true result. It's also true that this move- back to Portland, back to the place I first moved for its' sense of breath and calm, its unique and quirky kindness- will be the sixteenth in ten years. (To be fair, that includes college.) Nonetheless, my body is exhausted from it all; all the false starts and half-built homes, all the people I haven't wanted to leave behind, all the doctors' whose trails took me across countries and led to nothing.
But it will also be the first in six years that I make entirely by choice. Not for a doctor, but for me. Not seeking a better plan, but with one. And not because I have no choice- but because, in the million tiny ways we take for granted, I do now. I do.
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My neighbors' scarlet tree also reminds me of my hair. No longer pixie-short, no longer cotton-candy pink; not the occasional black curls or spikes, not shaved in frustration. It's been long and red, slightly layered, for a few months now; full and curling with Virginia humidity or Portland mist, depending. Just recently, long enough to almost kiss my shoulder-blades.
After a dozen years of pixie cuts, of perky spikes and shaved heads in summer, of hair no longer than the shortest of pigtails (aside from the two times I had black twined into color-streaked extensions) - I have what people [who aren't just me] would call long hair! A layered, scarlet surprise- months after I decided to keep letting it grow for the time being, it's still novel to look in the mirror.
I've been trying to craft the exact-right red, with my various pigments and hennas. That gleaming flesh of a fresh-cut blood orange. (A color so alive, we gave it the name of the fluid which sustains us.) A Tori Amos red, only multiplied. I almost had it once; a bright scarlet with magenta undertones, a deep orange sheen here-and-there; vibrant but just dark enough. But it faded quickly to glowing red-pinks and orange-reds that are very pretty, but not dark enough. The roots are long now; after bleaching them again and carefully trying my mix-master skills once more, I may cut a few inches off. Keep it long enough for pigtails, but short enough to not add time to this femme's dress-up routine. The point of this ramble is, really: Yes, I took pictures just yesterday- and yes, even have a few of the blonde-pink pigtail stage that came between Short and Now. I'm thinking of continuing to hone the right red, but not cutting it until I get that itchy urge again. But in case the not-unprecedented urge to chop away right away crops up: Well, at least there are photographs.
I know that not having visuals of me, of all people, has probably been weird- that my images, as much as my words, are a part of my art and my journal. And thus: my communication. I'll fix that lack of new visuals soon. I also know I'm still giving most of you more questions than answers; and apologize for any frustration! See, when able to dive into my life for the first time in years: I found myself in the midst of a joyous move before I could so much as catch you up on the basics of nearly two years. But as much as I live in the Now- I also know that history is essential to any true evolution- and I know, straight-up, that you've worried, wondered. And simply: been curious.
So I'll fix that- to the best of my ability- soon, too. I'm still here; I'm still feeling much more well than I have in years. But stay with me, yeah? Because it's wonderful to be making this move, but it's also totally unexpected- and coming right when I'm able to be back in fairly regular touch with the beautiful people of my life. There is, to say the least, a lot to balance as I find my way to balance!
But ultimately, I wouldn't expect it to be any other way. I've realized that genuine enlightenment is rarely some sudden flash. Far more often- if you reach it at all, if you have the determination and the hope often called for- it's years of overlapping labyrinths, trick bulbs, and finally- maybe- one day: A question. One that, if you dare to answer it, will help guide you. My extremely humble opinion, of course. But, as always, from the heart of this pinkest heart.
A few essential specifics: Opal and Heather, I have week-old drafts written to you, which feel somehow paltry. Masses of words which somehow don't seem enough- not considering the time, the love, the much of it all. There was so much to say, and before I knew it, so much more. If you can bear with me as you have so far, in such generosity and empathy; or if you'd rather call; please do. Alisha, Jac, and anyone else who tried to call- I won't detail the mess that occurred with my cell phone or why the numbers I offered both changed, shortly after offering. But if you use the old cell number, with 6464 at the end instead: You'll find my voice just might meet you at the end. And it will be something more than happy- something more like joyous- when it does.
A general message (crackle, static, crackle): I'm going to get a Blackberry-esque phone soon, for reasons mostly to do with dis/ability and keeping in better touch with such amazing friends/family. For now, I can only manage short text messages, without either hurting my fingers or short-circuiting my dorky need for proper grammar. But I can do phone calls, and will do my best to keep on keeping on, when it comes to letting you know my changing numbers. Now: You can trace back through a few entries to do some simple math and find my current number; or you can just write and ask. And lo, thee shall be answered! And (even more lo), I really do sometimes answer the phone now!
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On a last and (clearly!) urgent note: JAMES MARSTERS IS IN LOVE WITH ME! Okay, well: More specifically, he's a bit heartbroken, but ultimately wants to hold me and "take me there." Also, he understands the nature of my poor, poor misunderstood soul! And even that I come from the sea!
Look, listen, be amazed. (And pretty-please don't spit on my so-called fantasy; yes, yes, I already know the supp-ooosed true story behind this song.) The sound quality doesn't really do the song justice, but the c.d. it's on is much in this vein. Full of lovely, straightforward acoustics and lots of pretty angst. And lots of references to the ocean, which- well- you know me.
I could listen to that man segue from sexy laughter into the words: "Okay, I'll give you Robin", and then into strumming, a dozen times over and still be swooning. Fine, okay, maybe even panting just a bit. I may be drawn to women more often then men, but this rare specimen of a performer and person is among the definite exceptions.
Scarlet leaves. Dancing with hair in my face, red strands tangling in lip gloss as I laugh. Moments of true and utter swoon. The glow of blue bottles lined up along a window bright with day. My cat teaching herself bird-calls. Something about the simple, defining act of applying a stamp to an addressed postcard. A crush on the sound of a beautiful girls' laughter. Executing a near-perfect high-kick, even if nobody else was there to see. The intoxicating smell of organic granola, made from scratch, just out of the oven. The sound of conga drums waking me from a nap in the sun. Ohh, life's simple, sometimes silly details- seriously- what would we do without you?!