#7: landing
"One never reaches home," she said. "But where paths that have an affinity for each other intersect, the whole world looks like home, for a time." Hermann Hesse, Demian
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Above: My back yard on the East Coast. / Alt text: A woman stands on a wooden deck beside a house. In the left foreground, a garden bed; in the background, large bushes and shrubs.
It has been more than five years since I last wrote to you. I let this space sit fallow while I was consumed by parenting, working, and moving cross-country (twice! more on that below). This would be a lift in the best of times, and we are not in the best of times; I have had both much and little to say, but no real energy to put it into words.
I still don’t have much to say, but I would love to share where I am and hear where you are, and share a few good bits I’ve encountered lately as well. Here we go.
We left the Midwest. I moved with my family from Chicago to California in February 2019, and from California to New York in September 2020 — the former due to my husband accepting a new job, the latter accelerated by an urgent need to be closer to community amid Covid-19 and West Coast wildfires. Both were major moves, but the second was more fraught, the decision firmly committed one morning when we awoke and saw the sky was filled with heavy gray ashes and thick smoke.
We switched gears quickly. In less than four weeks, we gave up our apartment, put most of our things in storage, and headed east to stay with family. I flew with our son, our geriatric cat, two heavy backpacks, and a 65-pound suitcase. I wished blessings upon the airline worker who told me my suitcase had to be under 50 pounds, looked at my stricken face, and said, “You know what? Don’t worry about it,” and waved me through to a near-empty flight. Over the course of a week, my husband drove our sturdy Subaru across the country with our bed linens, clothes, plants, books, and toys — staying (masked) with friends when possible, and camping outside when necessary.
We set up home. Once we landed, my husband and I maneuvered through an intense real estate market to buy and renovate a sweet, smallish home, our first — a stressful endeavor made extra challenging by pandemic-induced price increases and supply chain shortages — while we lived temporarily out of two cramped bedrooms in his grandmother's house. Our home wasn’t finished before we moved in — we took our first shower in the bathroom before the stall glass was in place — but we wiped down the walls afterward and laughed it off.
Our kid grew up. We enrolled our son in school — our district school, not a daycare, which was another first — and marveled at him learning to read and do math (he loves to play a game he calls "equations," where he asks us to call out random numbers to add or subtract or multiply, and he gives the answer). We listened as he asked questions we couldn't always answer with reasonable accuracy, and looked up information about stars and planets, bugs and birds. We sized up his wardrobe as he stretched out of his clothes, and coached him as he learned to express his own more complex emotions, and respect those of others.
We started to explore. My husband introduced me and our son to Long Island beaches, where we squealed at sand crabs and tucked special pebbles and shells into our pockets. We found a favorite bakery and butcher shop, tested a few hairstylists, and landed on a new pediatrician. We started assembling all the little pieces that make up a new life, doing our best to look at each with inquisitiveness and joy.
And finally, I learned to exhale. I started and quit two jobs — the first, an internal transfer at Google; the second, a position at The New York Times — to rest, reconsider my work, and reorient my life around what matters most to me. I have no new job lined up; I have no big plans. Instead, I’m cultivating my garden, working to publish two books that came out of 100-day projects, taking Polaroids, reading, and drawing. I’m actively not allowing myself to think or worry about what’s next. It feels good to simply be curious again, and give the proper space for that to unfold.
Things I plan to do in June:
Plant herbs: marjoram, thyme, basil, dill, cilantro, parsley, sage, and rosemary.
Hit the beach very early on weekend mornings, before the crowds roll in.
Camp with my family in our backyard and look at the stars.
Take a walk with my husband every weekday.
Read. Write. Repeat.
Good things:
I always read the newsletter Found Poems.
The short film “Chamoe” is a beautiful bit of storytelling.
I read Katherine May’s new offering, “Wintering,” on Libby (an app to access your library), and loved it so much I treated myself to the hardcover version for my birthday. Gratitude to Jack Cheng for recommending it.
I’d love to hear from you – please write back and tell me how things fare in your world.
Until then, I hope you remain safe and well.
Yours,
Mari.
I love updates like this - keep on living!
YES to everything in this post. And, I like to know what like-minded others are reading. Words (and numbers) are important to my processes of mind and spirit.