I hear my future husband tuning his guitar. When I started this post, I was about to get in the shower after a breezy drive through Idaho (never been, beautiful and other worldly, my God), into and up Washington, landing in 63 degree sunshine. I felt my honey’s battery change to having a little lightning bolt on it. And I proceeded with unloading the truck and opening up the house.
I emptied my beloved cooler, cleaned out the fridge to its bones, wiped down the shelves – paid attention to the plants – goal: reset the kitchen for the month ahead.
David, my teammate, cleaned toilets, was in the yard, and switching switching and again switching the laundry.
It feels good to be here. It feels good to be somewhere different while the country flirts with re-opening. It feels good to get a little anxiety and then let the pine trees and sun heal it.
It feels good to see the blues and grays of the bay and it seem a little normal: less like a treasure and more like a rocking chair.
I plan on doing some physical healing and gut recovery in May. I plan on writing and listening while I work and plan our new family.
Plan our vows.
But most of all? I’m just planning on learning myself in this new season of further entering the cocoon in the PNW backdrop of adventure, engagement and the smell of the facial cleanser I bought in Denver en route here in the fall… with the lavender body wash David bought me in the summer after I played in the dirt in the backyard.
This is my real life. I’m in my real life. It’s beyond me.
Frozen Spaghetti 