My Wandering Days Are Over

It makes sense that we would go back to the forest to get married. At the altar of fern-laced trunks—the big, ancient trees that teach you how to grow and stay—Mark and I conspired to celebrate binding our two lives together last Friday.

Family and closest friends embarked on a journey to meet us there. It was far. They navigated traffic, paid bridge tolls to cross shimmering waters, and bravely left behind LTE and 3G to follow written directions to a dirt parking lot in the woods.

By the river, on the brink of a waterfall, I said my promises to Mark, and he said his to me. We talked not of chains but of the freedom in standing together. We talked not of giving things up, but of gaining strength and certainty. We talked about what love might look like—then, now, forever.

Plummeting water was the music. Garden blooms veiled my head. As I spoke, a strange salty water sprang forth my eyes. We both felt weird—light and full of vibration, floating and spinning like plumes from a dandelion. The only thing holding us to earth was the crowd gathered round. Without our people, we might have wafted clear off into the ether.

After the ceremony, we drank cups of champagne, then drove in a big caravan back to the city and into the storm. The rain fell in a curtain beyond the tents while we ate and drank. It was a soggy feast day, but warm with love and friendship. Kids played, defiant of the wet weather. The puppy turned into a feral creature—biting the heels of revelers as they walked by with heaping plates of food. Magick was all around.

People ask if it feels different. It does. It is different. We’re bonded for life, by symbolic rites carried out in front of pine fronds and faeries—but also in reality. In our purpose. In our finances. In our house. In our hearts.

4 THINGS

A winter solstice party in the sky: Sunday evening in the dead of winter is more like Sunday afternoon. What a fine time of day to walk the dog, though. On the way to the schoolyard the sky cracks into a magenta golden dream, like alpenglow, like cotton candy, and then on the way home it's dark. The Christmas lights twinkle cheerfully as you walk by and peek in people's windows, watching all the small, graceful moments of their quiet indoor lives.

Marc Maron's WTF interview with Sam Beam: I'm still thinking about this conversation Marc Maron had with Sam Beam of Iron & Wine fame. What a gentle, funny human. What warmth. In my mind, he's a bearded buddha, living like he does off in the woods of Carolina with five kids, a bunch of banjos and a head full of dusty tunes. He has the secret. He laughed at every single interview question—even the ones that weren't funny. "You can't be too serious about it," he said. "It's only life."

Joan Didion: After watching the Netflix documentary about her, I was inclined to reopen Slouching Toward Bethlehem and spend a night reading wisdoms like this: "I think we are well advised to keep on nodding terms with the people we used to be, whether we find them attractive company or not. Otherwise they turn up unannounced and surprise us, come hammering on the mind's door at 4 am. of a bad night and demand to know who deserted them, who betrayed them, who is going to make amends. We forget all too soon the things we thought we could never forget. We forget the loves and the betrayals alike, forget what we whispered and what we screamed, forget who we were. I have already lost touch with a couple of people I used to be ..."

Portobello rueben at Capitol: On a Tuesday night of no particular import we went out for bar food at Capitol on Broadway. It wasn't our first choice, but Shan Dong was full and I refuse to wait for dinner in town of 10 bajillion restaurants. So. Amidst ladies dressed in shimmery skirts and men in dapper coats, I ate the reuben of a lifetime. Beet and cabbage slaw, hearty mushroom meet, crisp rye. Thank you, world! Thanks December. Cheers Portland. Sometimes, you just get it right.

Favorites 10.9.17

Black hits. When I bought my house 11 years ago, the trim was painted a festive teal. I hired Neil Dacosta and his lass Sara Phillips to paint over it with an understated white—and do classics accents of deep red. Recently, I realized I could—nay, must do something different. And so I went to Home Depot and bought a pint of black to refresh the accents. What I like is the way black isn't even a color. It doesn't add anything to the mix—it just emphasizes things, like putting eyeliner on all your windows. Here they are!

Old Country mornings. Townes. Emmy Lou. They are very recommended for breakfast listening on cool-to-cold mornings with fall light coming through the windows (when the NPR membership drive and other horrors of the world have taken the op for soothing news radio off the table).

Harvest moons. Not the Neil Young album of the same name. The real thing—our planet's satellite. I can never really get over the moon. It's strange light and mysterious vibrations. What pulls the ocean, pulls us in seen and unseen ways. Or at least that's what the folk revivalists tell us. Regardless, you can't not gasp at that big ol' pumpkin-sized moon hanging over the horizon.

Dove Vivi. Under the influence of cornmeal crust pizza and a glass of red, on maybe the last truly warm night of the year, you can discuss anything. Friends. Work. Blatant gossip. Philosophy. Rock and roll. Television. Death. Birthdays. Future plans and regrets. Etc. At the end, when there are 2 pieces left but 4 people around the table, you cut each piece in half, so that everyone takes home a morsel of the sacred evening.

9.30.1977

It's been 40 years since I was born—a little blonde pine cone plopping to earth in Denver, Colorado. Let the record show. It's been 40 years of fighting and working and feeling.

People have been saying to me kindly, you don't look 40! Thank you? But, like: What's wrong with looking 40? I don't buy into the culture of youth worship. I was an idiot when I was 25. And generally speaking, I do believe people become better with age. In my pursuit of being the realest, most emphatic form of me, I can only feel, look and act exactly my age. I'm me! I go to work. I go to the skatepark. I clean my own house and pay my own mortgage. I run the stairs at Mt. Tabor. I text my mom almost everyday. I drink beer and eat pizza whenever possible. And no matter what's happened, at a certain hour every night—I migrate toward the couch and watch TV. I used to be energetic and single and very eager to see rock shows. Now I have a house with a mini ramp in the garage and a hubs-to-be. There's what and who have happened to me in the past life. And there's me now. Get this—they're the same thing. Somewhere inside, I'm still 10 freaking years old crouching behind the chokecherry bush about to shoot out the greenhouse window with a bb gun. Accidentally.

Anyway, Saturday—my birthday—was a big day. A cinnamon roll for breakfast. A driveby on a friend's yardsale. A hike through the spooky Northwest fog. A dog with a squirrel addiction. A few beers with a few friends and a metric ton of laughs. We're alive, guys! What a thing.

Late Summer To-Do List

1. Keep my garden alive. 90 degrees, for 90 days straight, or it feels like it anyway. If you need me, I'll be out back watering.

2. Skate backyard mini ramps. This is always on my to-do list. My priorities are forever straight in this department.

3. Tiptoe my way back to reading. My dog ate my book. True story. He ate page 301-333—the last 30 pages. Time for a new story and a fresh start.

4. Avocados and watermelon. The foods of summer. More of them, please.

5. Eat dinner outside every night until rains. Have dinner conversations with the bees and hummingbirds.

6. Ride my bike to the bar. A luxury of the dry, not-totally-fucking-freezing months.

7. Procure a T shirt dress. A lazy lady's must-have staple of the Indian Summer.

8. Get a little sunburnt—one last time. Just a little, for old times sake!