here then there

Four months ago D and I planned our future on a napkin while out to dinner. We were contemplating our next move and organizing various states and cities into categories such as no-way-in-hell; probably not; maybe; top choices; and weird-suburban-eastern states-no-one-knows-anything-about.

Michigan and Wisconsin never made it into a category, but instead floated on a line somewhere between probably not and maybe. New Hampshire and Maine were relegated to an island wedged between maybe and top choices. Alaska was crossed out and relocated to NWIH for a reason I no longer recall. Texas sat firmly in the probably not category alongside Kentucky, Pennsylvania, Ohio, Missouri, Arizona, and Alabama. (And now after reexamining the napkin I just made the executive decision to move Iowa into the NWIH column. For future reference.)

We based our analysis on practical things like regional politics, access to trails for running and biking, proximity to mountains and international airports, the likelihood of both of us finding jobs in our fields, and the ability to purchase booze on Sundays. And then we compromised. I let Oregon sneak into the top choices distinction and D begrudgingly let D.C. in the door. We considered these small victories. As I jotted each location underneath its respective category, I noticed the list scaled east and felt confident my side of the country would prevail. I suspect D felt the same way about his.

But we were both wrong.

A few weeks ago, an unanticipated opportunity in the Republic of Texas arose that was better than any of the other options on the table.  And I knew that. And it stung. D called during his scouting trip to Austin to sell me on the city.

“So I went to this BBQ joint with my cousin and they were giving out free beer,” he said. “They just tapped a keg and put out cups of beer where you picked up the ribs. You can pretty much drink everywhere here. And most places have patio seating.”

D also returned with presents for me of the best kind: packages of gourmet cheese and pictures of the local grocery co-op. He told me about a food truck that serves biscuits and gravy and mentioned that the people on his flight actually argued over which BBQ restaurant he should visit first. (He knows my weakness for pork.)

Still, both of us struggled to wrap our minds around moving to a state where Rick Perry would be our governor. We discussed the idea over strong beverages in our kitchen and with family over coffee on the Skype. We needed a bit more convincing. Feedback from my side of the family went typically something like this: Austin? Oh. I’ve never been there. I hear it has a great music scene. Huh. Austin. And then there was the response from D’s family – most of whom attended Rice.

D’s mum (a native Texan): I am just so happy! I think you’re both going to love Austin. I love Austin. And Texans are just the nicest people you will ever meet.

Me: Nancy, if Texans are so great, then how come they keep trying to secede?

And so forth.

But I’ve come to terms with the move. And I am getting more excited each day. In a strange way, I think it’s good that Austin wasn’t a place either of us was gunning for – it wasn’t even on our radar. Because Texas will be a place we can discover together. Kind of like Utah.

Last weekend we had a yard sale. And it was amazing. People paid money for our junk, and then a man who owns a thrift shop in Wyoming came and hauled the rest away. All we had to do was drink coffee on our front stoop for a few hours in the sun and chat with neighbors we never knew and others we did. One woman cruising down our street on her bicycle stopped to have a look and absently asked where we were moving as she scanned the lawn. Her eyes popped when we told her.

“I love Austin! I used to live in Austin,” she said. “I was just there. I am so jealous! You’re going to love it.”

I smiled. And then she pedaled away.

wayfinding home

“I did not grow up in a religious house. We just went to church on Sundays.”

I said this Tuesday night while holding a bundle of limp kale in the kitchen in the midst of yelling at communicating with my husband about his upcoming job interview in Texas. “I am a liberal from the northeast with anger management problems. How am I going to fit in?”

He hadn’t even packed and I had moved us to the Deep South where my feet were already broiling on the pavement and the southern Baptists were at my door warning of my pending descent to hell. I was picturing parking lots the size of football fields, a garden shriveled from the latest drought, and ladies with big boobs and bigger bangs handing me a semiautomatic as I deplaned.

Please note I have actually visited Texas before. I drove straight across the plains and up through the panhandle into Oklahoma the summer of 2003. And none of the aforementioned things happened. I realize I am completely stereotyping the Republic of Texas just as I envision my home state as a bastion of rainbow flags and fair trade coffee. Not so.

It’s just that for the past nine years I have been wayfinding the West with an internal GPS oriented towards Boston. I moved to Gilroy, California with the intention of staying in The Golden State for two, maybe three years. I promised my mom. And I live in Utah now. I’ve spent much of the past decade trying to define this notion of home that has been a marker on the move. While living in California I always referred to home as Massachusetts. In Utah, I have held on to my California license despite literally having put roots in the ground.

Last weekend I had to rebuild some of the rows in my garden. The spring in northern Utah has been especially cool. Some of my seeds were late to germinate, some never did, and others washed away from the fractured rows. Then there was the 70 percent that made it. They took and held on through the bouts of sun, rain, and snow. I looked at the patchy rows—some with tufts of carrots separated by swaths of dirt—and wondered what makes some seeds tougher than others. And what type of seed am I? When I originally planted in early April I proudly informed my neighbor Jack that I am a gambler. But I am beginning to wonder if this is really the case. If I am, wouldn’t I be a little more open to change?

Last year I nearly killed my entire collection of tomato and cucumber starts because I failed to recognize that I needed to harden them off to the sun. My friend Matt, a Utah native who grew up farming, looked at my pathetic tomato starts and suggested I just replant. “They won’t make it,” he said.

But he was wrong.

By midsummer most of my starts were unrecognizable. They wound up producing more fruit than we could eat. I found evidence of the bounty this spring when chucking rotted yellow tomato skins from the topsoil. And though I may not make it to the fall harvest, I continue planting more and more rows in the beds. Because that is what I do here.

While it’s way too early to think about peppers, I have decided to conduct an experiment. I pulled three pots from the garage and planted some Anaheims. By the time they are ready to be transplanted we should have a sense of direction, whether it be Boston, Austin, or the same plot I marked off last year. I will take any survivors and put them in the ground. And then recalibrate.

my Boston

The first thing that happened to me during my debut Boston Marathon was two veteran runners made sure I got corralled onto the right bus in Boston Commons. I don’t know if they recognized how overwhelmed I was by the crowds, but they kept their eye on me and guided me through the chaos. We never exchanged names. On the bus I found an empty seat next to another runner who I knew was fast. His bib number was 4,000 lower than mine.  And he was quiet too.

When we reached Hopkinton I thanked the driver before exiting. He wished me good luck. The BAA volunteers greeting us in the parking lot directed us where we needed to go. It was 7 a.m. and they were cheery. They had already been standing in the cold for hours. As I waited in line for the port-a-potties I listened to the conversations around me: strangers exchanging training stories and wishing each other well. Eventually I worked up the nerve to the same.

On the line I made friends with a woman from Florida. We confessed that it was our first Boston and how anxious we felt. She said she had only trained on flats. I had trained on mountain passes. So I told her what I was told: don’t go out too fast. You’ll blow out your legs from the downhill and have nothing left for the last six miles.  We crossed our fingers and wished each other luck. The race began and we lost track of each other after the first mile.

Throughout the race I saw remarkable things: A man pushing himself backwards up a hill in a wheelchair with one leg. I nodded at him. Or at least I tried to. I passed a man running with a prosthetic limb and a blind woman running with a guide. Every so often I would come upon members of the military running or walking the course with heavy packs. The crowd would inevitably break out into chants of USA! USA! USA! It was fitting. Marathon Monday is on Patriots Day in Massachusetts. I saw my family posted where they said they would be at mile 10. I got a little choked up as I continued on.

At the halfway point the thought of backing off ran through my mind as it always does during a marathon. But I didn’t. You couldn’t have asked for a better day Munson, I told myself. I ignored the blisters forming under my big toes. There was nothing I could do about them then. I accepted popsicles from strangers and occasionally touched hands with someone in the crowd because that is what you do at Boston. The last four miles I saw the Citgo sign and ran towards it. My old apartment was just around the bend.

As I slingshot around the final corner and onto Boylston Street I could see the finish line. I strode the final quarter mile. I was close. I was happy. The crowd was bigger and louder here than anywhere else. I collected hugs from the volunteers at the end – my former high school coaches – and was wrapped in a warming blanket. And then I found my family. This is what it means to finish the Boston Marathon. At least that is what it was like for me.

One hour later I was showering in my hotel room and some asshole changed that. I came out of the bathroom to see images of explosions at the finish line. Someone blew up my city. They blew up people I had just seen. I usually cry a little after I race. I think it’s the endorphins crashing. I didn’t after I finished this time. I broke down in my room. And it had nothing to do with endorphins.

I looked out the window from the 22^nd floor and watched ambulances streaming towards Copley. We packed our bags and checked out, collected the car, and tried to navigate closed streets towards 93 and the suburbs. In the backseat I watched fellow runners who were just finishing or never got to looking cold and confused. A woman who had a phone put her hand across her eyes and wept. BPD fanned out across the city and tried to organize the chaos. Helicopters were overhead. This is not my city I kept thinking. Some asshole just blew up my city.

Right before we got onto the highway we pulled over for seven ambulances that were heading to area hospitals. We would later learn that a bomb was planted outside Tufts Medical Center and another that wasn’t detonated was underneath the bleachers where my parents had been sitting an hour before. The entire ride home I fielded text messages from concerned family and friends.

They reported that the phone lines were clogged. Later we learned the lines were cut in case the bombs were being detonated by phone. At home we looked through pictures my parents took of me the night before the race at the finish line. We were looking to see if there was anything in the background we should have noticed but didn’t.

Before bed I received an email from someone saying that they were choosing to focus on the positive things that happened that day. I wanted to write back Fuck you. You weren’t there.  It’s not your hometown. But I didn’t. I just closed my laptop and thought terrible things. For me, less than five hours after people’s legs got blown off and three others were killed is too early for focusing on the positives of the day.

I am scared that things will change. You run Boston because of the crowd support. Boston is the crowd. It is the volunteers. It is getting to cross the finish line and saying you did it. I choke up when I think of how my day began and how I finished and what thousands of others didn’t get to feel at the finish line. People remember last year’s race because thousands of runners didn’t start the race due to the intense heat. People will remember this year’s race because of the thousands who started and didn’t get to finish.

My brother in law is Israeli. He texted support saying he has experience with this sort of event: The best advice I ever got was from an old man who told me that no matter what happens keep living, keep smiling life goes on. They only win if you do actually live in fear. So with a fresh qualifying time under my belt I intend to run the 118^th Boston Marathon. And I am going to do it wearing a giant middle finger on my chest.

Dear boys,

I don’t know you anymore. The last time we spoke was September of 2011. And it wasn’t good.

It was pretty much the worst breakup I’ve had since the fifth grade when I called my then boyfriend a shit for flirting with some cute blonde at recess. I admit, I overreacted. But I was still learning about relationships – how to have one and recognize a keeper when it’s right in front of you. You know. We all make mistakes.

I am going to be honest. I am not over Tito. He was my first. And second. That meant something to me. I really thought we had a good thing going with those championships. What happened?

I know. I know. We can’t go back. But Bobby Valentine? He gave us the worst season since 1965. I think you can at least give Tito a public apology. And when I say ‘you’ I mean Larry Lucchino. 

But I don’t want to dwell on the past. I am writing you to tell you I think we should talk. Because today I found myself hovering on your url. And I admit it. I checked you out. Then I downloaded the MLB gameday app for my phone. Now we can be together even when we’re apart.

Don’t go getting ahead of yourselves. My mind didn’t even go to October. However, I do think we might have the start of something. If you don’t totally fuck up again. Tonight the sell out streak at Fenway was broken. You clearly have some work to do. And I don’t just mean how Hanrahan totally botched the save.

But it was actually nice to listen to you boys totally go down in flames in the ninth. A friend warned that I shouldn’t get too invested in you. That you would just break my heart again. I say good. That means I at least care.

Sincerely,

Kristen

see what comes

The other day I got nervous that I had lost something important to me. I pulled out boxes of old journals and began flipping the pages in search of a few sheets of faded blue-lined paper tucked near a spine. During the process of dumping over boxes and peering between covers, I found a number of writings I should burn immediately. But that was a mission for another time.

Eventually I found what I was looking for: instructions my aunt Carol wrote me 15 years ago about how to paint when you don’t know how. She was an artist who focused on painting and glasswork. She died in her studio when I was a freshman in college. We flew to D.C. for the funeral, but the only thing I really remember is pulling up to her brownstone that was really white, and going into the basement that was stocked with paintings of flowers. Her husband urged us to tag the canvases we wanted. But I felt strange claiming her work. He just seemed so lost.

I likely romanticize some aspects of her life and the past because that is what happens when someone passes away who you don’t know very well but kind of wish you did.

The instructions came with the last gift Carol ever gave me – a set of oil paints, canvases, palette, palette knife, and brushes. Over the course of six pages she laid out exactly what I would need to do to begin. Step one was acquiring some old newspapers and jars, turpentine, work clothes, and a little space in the basement. I needed room to make a mess.

Carol then explained what each item was for and how to use it. She diagrammed how she arranged her palette with colors, followed by a description of how to blend the paints and apply them to a canvas. Carol was informative but not prescriptive. She made one thing clear: the paints were mine to experiment with.

“The key is to have fun with it. Play with it – be loose with it – get used to how the paint feels – how the brushes feel – the texture the different lines and effects you can make,” she wrote. “Try all the possibilities – add a little more white or more yellow whatever – do it in little bits – discard and start again if you make mud – it’s easy to make mud. You’ll get to know the paints and they all have different qualities.”

The last page was all about how to save leftover paint and her preferred way of cleaning brushes. And that was it. No suggestions on what to try first. No closing, no good luck. Just space on a half empty page. I was responsible for the rest.

I reread her notes, and then tucked them away in the binding of another journal. I haven’t painted in more than a decade. And I never did learn how the different paints moved across the canvas. I just didn’t had a vision for them.

There were definitely a few nights in high school when I couldn’t sleep and I found myself with nothing to do but mix colors on the floor. But the only thing I produced was a not quite finished sky. And lots of mud. Eventually the tubes of paint were stacked in the corner until I went to college. And then they disappeared.

On a whim last month I purchased some blank postcards and watercolors. I think I recognized I need to figure out how to start with blank space and make something of it. And even though painting with watercolor is different from oils, I needed guidance on how to approach something new. Carol’s instructions were simple – put everything out there, use what you have, and see what it can do. (And lay some newspaper down so you don’t stain the carpet this time.)

These next few months nothing and nowhere is certain. D has a job interview in Austin in three weeks, I keep wondering when or if I am ever going to be on Eastern Standard Time again, and our landlord just put our house on the market. A big red for sale sign was planted on the front lawn this weekend. It blew off in a windstorm and I found it on the sidewalk today on my way home from work. I leaned it against the post before heading to the backyard to check the garden. Yesterday was near 60 and I was sipping on Lillet in the sun. Snow is expected tonight.

I inspected the beds and found only the kale has pushed through the topsoil. I don’t know what is happening with the peas. I will give them a few more days before I start rooting around in their box looking for proof of life. Something tells me they just need a little heat. Before bed I pulled a tarp across the rows of kale and secured it with bricks along the edges to give the seedlings a chance against the freeze. Tomorrow I will have to see what comes.

here or not

One day you are out checking the mail and dodging icicles hanging from the roofline so you don’t wind up as one of those freak accidents on the news. The next week you are no longer focused on the danger above, because at some point they melted and you forgot to take notice. Now, underneath your mailbox the first of the crocuses have made their ascent through the topsoil. It’s only a few degrees above freezing, but there they are in their golden glory, telling old man winter just where to kiss it.

Every morning over the past few weeks I took a mug of coffee and walked to the edge of the backyard hoping to see patches of dead grass appear. And then expand. Finally, the last of the snow receded from the lawn and melted off the garden boxes. Saturday it was in the high forties and sunny. In Utah this means the temperature is warm enough to work in jeans and a T-shirt and run inside to grab a cocktail while you work. Because outside you get to be your own boss.

Readying the beds for planting is one of my favorite aspects of gardening. You get to take an inventory of the past. Popsicle sticks scrawled with permanent marker lay on their sides. Each was labeled with a vegetable followed by the date I last stuck them in the ground: spinach 3/21, arugula  3/24, and chard 4/6. They were my gambles that paid off. The rows of carrots rotting in the sun behind them are the ones that didn’t.

I removed the leaf cover blown over from my apple tree in the fall, and uprooted the carrots that didn’t make it out of the ground before the first freeze of winter. Next I pulled a few limp heads of chard. Their roots were nearly a foot long and two inches thick at the base. I snapped one in half and for some reason immediately lifted it to my nose. It smells like life, I said to myself.

Afterward I hoed the dirt and inspected the compost pile. This probably sounds gross. But I assure you, it’s awesome. Flipping over the pile reminds me of hiking in the woods behind my house as a kid with my little brother Matty. We would turn over rocks and fallen branches and watch as bugs we didn’t recognize scuttled out of the sunlight. And then repeat.

This time I found a ladybug. This is her. I am hoping she sticks around long enough to have babies that will grow up in my garden – at least for the first crop rotation.

found her in my compost heap

After my discovery I turned and looked into my neighbor Jack’s yard. It was brown and dead too. He was raking leaves from his raspberry bushes when I called over to tell him of my find.

“So you’re going to garden again?” he asked. “That’s good. It means your going to stay. You’re going to at least be around for the harvest.”

I nodded. And for the first time, it hurt to think about. Just a few hours before I walked to the seed and supply shop down the street and bought packets for peas, spinach, onions, kale, chard, carrots, and beets. I swept my fingers through the strawberry patch and noticed new leaves beginning to sprout. The truth is I always knew I would plant again this spring. I just haven’t thought beyond putting seeds in the ground and waiting for something to happen.

When we moved in to our house three Aprils ago, the planter boxes were filled with spaghetti squash somebody grew and left behind. At the time I thought it was sad. Even disrespectful somehow. I clipped the dried vines from the beds and tossed them onto the compost heap wondering just who these people were and why they left without their damn squash. Now I realize that it isn’t always about the harvest in the end. Sometimes all you can do is plot your garden and try to keep the weeds out. Because life will come whether I am here or not.

perhaps

During a recent conversation with my boss we discussed the importance of learning from people who have different ideas than you. Most of the time nothing particularly special or noteworthy happens when individuals with various expertise sit down and talk about difficult things. But sometimes people start changing the questions. They start framing problems in a new way. We were talking about research. I thought about how this might apply to my grampa.

He is a person who exists between decades. He no longer has any real concept of time, or day, or even year. On my last visit to Boston I surprised him at his home. My parents and I didn’t bother to ring the doorbell; we let ourselves in and found my grampa sitting in his arm-chair in the living room. It startled me.

The television was off. There was no book in his lap. It didn’t appear as though he had been napping. He was just sitting in the room with the lights off. Eventually, his face broke into a slow smile and he started giving me the business—his version of saying, hi, I missed you. But the situation bothered me. I got the sense that this was something of a routine.

For years I called him every Sunday afternoon. He expected it. If I phoned after four he would rib me for being late. Eventually he would pass the phone and my nana would talk about the damn dog she loved so much, and then ask about my love life. Looking back, I wish I had better stories to tell her. I remember describing the night a boy I liked lent me his jacket because I was cold at a campfire. When there wasn’t more to the story she was disappointed asking, that’s it? My grampa was easier. He always seemed happy just to hear my voice on the other end.

Now, I still call him on Sundays. But he doesn’t remember that I do. Our conversations used to take about eight minutes. I started noticing when they dropped to six. Lately it’s around four. I am beginning to think the Sunday calls are more for me now.

There will be occasions when grampa seems good, like we are having a real conversation. I ask a question, he answers, then he returns the serve. Often it pertains to the weather. The overall narrative is the same: I tell him I am working. He says he is glad to hear it. These moments usually fade and I wind up repeating the same question a few different ways. I know he has trouble hearing me, but I am never certain if that’s the problem, or if I am simply asking too much of him.

I find myself digging for proof of memory. My questions change in their meaning.  When I ask what he had for lunch I am really asking if he remembers us. I want to understand where he goes when he is still in front of me. When I ask him to peel potatoes does that trigger anything in his mind? Does he connect that task with his job peeling potatoes at the clam shop where he first met my nana? Or is that another decade he has lost? Sometimes I wonder if I am interrupting his world when I call. He never can really say where he’s been.

My parents will show him photos of our family. Of his wife. His children. They say he has trouble identifying people in the images. That he often thinks they are people from his past. Sometimes he just outright asks if particular friends are still alive. Because he hasn’t seen them in a while …

What gives me hope is that he can remember my nephews. They are just seven and a half months old. Although he cannot remember their names, he knows them. And for me, this is something. It means he can make new connections in his brain. At the end of the month I am heading south to visit a man studying cognitive decline in elderly populations. I am doing it for work. And for me.

I would by lying if I said I wasn’t hoping he has some answers. I admit, I am hoping he will tell me we are doing it wrong. That not recognizing people in photographs doesn’t necessarily mean you don’t know who they were to you. I realize hope doesn’t have anything to do with science. And that perhaps we aren’t using the wrong vocabulary to communicate with grampa. Perhaps we aren’t just asking the wrong questions. Then again, perhaps.

unhinged.

There is a moment in nearly every action film when the hero sprints towards the camera as cars and buildings explode in the background. You know this scene. You also know that the hero never dies in it. He will emerge covered in soot and wounded perhaps. But you find comfort in this sequence because it signals the hero’s survival. At least it always has. And I am hoping that’s how it continues. Because it’s kind of how I am feeling these days. (And yes, I get to be the hero on my own blog. It’s only fair.)

You see, two days ago I walked to work as usual. The temperature was a balmy negative nine. I paused to look where the mountains should be—one mile east—but found nothing but haze and indiscernible mounds instead. It was another red air day. Another day the community is supposed to stay indoors. Later I logged onto the state’s air quality agency to read the alerts. The forecast was the same for the foreseeable future. I felt defeated.

It is hard training for a marathon inside. How am I supposed to go under three hours if I can’t train on hills or even without ever turning right? (Runners are not allowed to run clockwise on the indoor track.) So I stepped onto one of the treadmills in the gym for a little variety. The room is windowless and the machines are pressed against the back wall facing the mirror. I punched my pace and time and began. I lasted .20 miles before completely losing my cool.

I think that’s what happens when you are in the midst of a sustained freeze and living in a community with some of the worst air in the nation. At least that’s what happens to me. I walked home muttering to myself and swearing at the 2011 model diesel pickup trucks running unattended in driveways. I am walking two miles both ways so you sir can spew crap into the air so your tushy can be warm when you start driving? I bellowed. I counted single occupancy vehicles — well over 90 percent of cars —and swore at them too.

Passersby must have found the sight of a woman donning two pairs of pants, two jackets, two pairs of mittens, and wearing a dead rabbit wrapped around her face and hollering into the night mildly disturbing. I hope so.

By the time I arrived home I was in a really special mood. Poor D. He tried comforting me saying not to worry; I should just approach the Boston Marathon as a fun way to run through my hometown. I decided it was time to be honest. Really set the record straight. I don’t run marathons for fun. They are inherently not fun. If they are fun you aren’t running fast enough. I don’t run for fun most days. I run so I am not a crazy person. And right now, I am. At that point, there may or may not have been an unhinged gleam in my eye as I said this. You would have to ask him.

I imagine my prehistoric ancestors were a similar bunch. I wouldn’t be surprised if fellow clansmen spoke of Munsons this way: Nice people. Don’t touch their shit.

After my meltdown I made a game plan. Double sessions on red air days. Get reacquainted with the pool, bike, and rowing machine. Use the indoor track only for workouts. On weekends, drive above the smogline for long runs. And I started lifting again.

Yesterday was my first day back in the gym after about six years. And it felt awesome. I noticed veins popping in my arms as I did reps with my little 10-pounders. I left feeling strong. Like I could flip a car if I wanted to. I also left feeling fast. And that’s the plan.

like yesterday

Wednesday was my second anniversary with the state of Utah. Sometimes it feels like a life someone else has been leading.

Minutes after putting the car in park and walking up the stairs of my 
new home, I received a phone call. The person on the other end told me he might be 
sick and that he hadn’t wanted to tell me when I was driving 900 miles across the desert alone. It then registered why my sister sounded so odd the night before. She was listening to me describe the weather – cold –and 
the roads – quiet. Meanwhile, she was in hell and couldn’t say a word.

I recall listening to him talk about medical tests and the plan for 
the days ahead. At the time, I was standing in the bedroom of a tiny, 
rundown apartment with a bathroom tiled hot pink. It had a plastic
 accordion door. I tried tucking into the shadows of the closet to 
listen while D and a friend talked in the kitchen. They had no idea.

For a while I wondered whether I should just put all the boxes back in my car and keep driving east. Instead, I phoned every day, 
trying to find different ways to ask the same question: How are you?
 And. How are you really? Because calling is not the same.

Over the next few weeks I spent considerable time reading survival
 manuals, and running on snow-covered trails because it was the one
 place nobody else was. I spent evenings talking to the ceiling and
 summoning the universe. I dreamt of dead people and hoped they were
 right when they came to me saying, “There isn’t a lot of fruit in the
 cake.”

I thought about that first day a lot Wednesday night. I was sitting on
 a couch in a different room in a different house where I don’t have to
 hide. (And where the downstairs bathroom is a much more
 modest shade of bubblegum.) D asked what I was thinking. How grateful
 I am, I said.

Over the past two years three words have come to hold real meaning for me: remission, marriage, and babies. During that time my person got sick and he got better; my boyfriend became my husband; and my sister announced her pregnancy, then doubled down. The boys are all alright. Life is fucking awesome. I have jack shit to complain about. (And yet I still do.) But I am trying to be grateful every day, not just when I take a moment to reflect on the big picture.

This year I aim to worry less about things I cannot take credit for causing or changing. I will live my life here until I live it somewhere else. And these days, motion seems to be the topic bandied about most in our household. What next?  Where next? The answers will eventually come. I know I am good with change. That is, once I know what it is.

Until then, I will admit who I am: an environmentalist, a feminist, and a person who generally hangs left. That is true regardless of the zip code I am in. And I want to stop feeling as though those are things I should say in a hushed voice in restaurants. I had no idea how much I would really miss seeing the shirtless guy in the glitter spandex riding his bike on Market Street in San Francisco.

Last weekend D and I drove up the canyon to go skiing and get out of the inversion—otherwise known as smog to the rest of the world. Above 6,000 feet the sky was clear and the snow was powder. My fingers froze on the downhill. It was nice to be alone in the wilderness and just take in the view.

I know that one day we will leave here. One day I will tell you I miss the cold. I miss the high desert mountains, and the dinnertime conversations pondering, where to next? I know that someday I will pull out my skis and remember the climb up Temple Fork and the jagged mountains beyond. I will try to recall how my fingertips burned from the cold. And it will feel like yesterday.

building something

Driving across Nevada to my new home in Utah two years ago, I swore I would learn to be my own hero. I would tackle new things. Learn how to change a tire on my Subaru. Maybe even pop open the hood and take a look at the engine to see what all that metal stuff inside does. Perhaps even poke around in there tinkering with the thingamabobs. You know.

As I looked out at the snow-covered peaks I thought about acquiring wilderness survival skills. I read old Army manuals and decided I just had to build a lean-to in the backyard. That could come in handy someday. When I came across instructions for making natural pitch out of boiled tree resin I was sold. That is so me. I was going to become a certified mountain woman. I envisioned trying my hand at carpentry. Why buy a kitchen set if you can build it? Upon completion I would turn to manufacturing craftsman dressers. I would admit to my neighbors with a sigh, I guess I do have quite a knack for it.

Two years later, none of that has happened. I basically pulled into the driveway and left the dreams in park. I am not a pioneer woman. No, not even close. Just the other day I found myself bitching that the new mall in Salt Lake City is closed on Sundays. The nerve! I then paid $7 for the local department store to hem my new jeans I did not sew. I have come so far.

Looking back, the only new skill I have acquired is gardening. And half of success there is dumb luck and weather dependent. I feel like a fraud. When I really consider my progress, I can tell you I also make jam. But that process often involves a lot swearing. My evenings are largely filled with Scrabble games and watching my boyfriend Stephen Colbert while cooking. The other day I thought about purchasing some new software and learning how to design and code my own website. But thinking about it was as far as it went. What happened to my ambition?

Over the weekend I went to find it. I needed a project that seemed more manageable than going to Home Depot and investing in a power saw that I don’t know how to and am terrified of wielding. But I still wanted to use my hands. And not for emailing or typing. I want to make something. I want to hold it in my hands, turn it over, and give it away.

So I went to the quilting store down the street and purchased some scraps, sewing needles and a handful of buttons. I inquired about a pin cushion, but was told by the sales person, honey, we make ours. I see.

On Saturday I prototyped my creation(s). The experience of cutting fabric, pinning it, and stitching it together brought me back to my elementary school days when I tried sewing dresses for my Barbies out of pink satin and tiger print cloth. Don’t judge. It was the eighties. In high school I tried making a simple cotton dress with spaghetti straps. But I wasn’t willing to put the effort into it. Ultimately I did produce a wearable item. It just wasn’t something I wore.

Fifteen years later I have matured. I am making stuffed animals. Mini stuffed animals. And they are adorable. I will make a different type each year. And over time I will eventually build my ark.