A Summer Slice
Last week was a very good week.
The temperature was summerish, in the high 80s, and the vibrations were good, from an astrological standpoint. No cosmic storms or real ones.
On an unassuming Wednesday evening, our pal Patrick arrived from New York, causing us to convene at the Bracewell mini ramp to celebrate such things as skateboarding and old friends. It was lovely. It was hot. Everyone sweated through their tee shirts. Then we all went to the Alleyway for food and cold drinks. To have a day so full of friends and fun so early in the week? One can only hope for this kind of thing.
On Friday afternoon, after everyone had gotten up early and worked hard, a river trip came together with very little effort at all. The water was tropical green and that just-right temperature—cool but not cold. You could swim for real, not just dive in and shiver calamitously back out. And did you know that we saw a bald eagle while we were there? A hush fell on the beach as it soared over the sun bathers—a benediction on the water and on summer and, I guess, on us.
Anyway, I am no reckless optimist, but good portent was everywhere last week. To be friends, to be together, to be happy ... what a neat thing.
Weekend By The Numbers
I worked hard all week and then the weekend came. It was wonderfully cool on Saturday morning. I woke up early to eat toast and cream cheese while drinking sweet black coffee. I used to have it with milk, no sugar, but everything changes—even something like how you drink your coffee.
95 is the number of minutes I skated Mini West Linn with Toby and Derek and George and Steve and Brandon, there in the shade of the tall, leafy trees. Lefty chased me barking, then got tired and laid down in the middle of everything, blocking such obstacles as the rail and the ledge (he's not called "the cutest kook" for nothing).
2 is the number of points I miraculously scored at the late-afternoon kickball game in Irving Park, running from base to base as fast as I could, which is admittedly not very fast. As said elsewhere, ball sports aren't really in my repertoire, but if I HAVE to play, then kickball, with its big ol' bouncy ball rolling slowly toward you when you're up to kick, well it's more my speed. A ball sport for the uncoordinated, if you will.
1 is the number of cans of Rainier I drank at the swimming hole, and then felt lightheaded, sunburnt despite having smeared on SPF 1,000 sunscreen. Later, we all dove in and swam through the rippling current to the rocks on the other side, where Toby climbed around and Ryan and Mark and Katie and I crouched in the cold water and let it rush on past.
3 is the number of pictures I borrowed from friends for this post. Tricia took the post-kickball picture of us at the park—exhausted, sweaty, happy, having recreated heavily. Danielle captured us at the swimming hole, with its jewel-toned water. On our hike back from swimming, Toby took the shot of the quiet forest awash in evening light. Thanks, guys!
3 Things
Stranger Things: A new throwback sci-fi for all you E.T. & X Files fans out there. It gets me scared, but it also makes me feel warm and fuzzy inside just like all really great 80s movies do to all humans who grew up wearing velour sweatpants and drinking Tang in the 80s.
Yerba mate: A mild cocaine of sorts for work-day doldrums. I can get lit on a mug of this, plug in Explosions In The Sky, and crush 3 hours of product copy. Magically, I will still be able to sleep later. It's cool.
New roommate: After what amounts to years of living alone, the struggle to not become curmudgeonly was real. But turns out, having someone at the house when you get home is quite lovely, because then that someone is around to open stuck jars of jam, and there's someone to drink wine with as the light falls, and there's someone for Lefty to run and find in hopes of protection from being given a bath—which he won't get because, little does Lefty know, that someone is a double agent who works for me. Hah!
Pictures Of You
I haven't read that one best-selling book about decluttering your life, but I don't think I have to. The urge to cleanse comes on like a fever now and then. For me, life feels lighter when you open a drawer and dump its entire contents in the trash. Byeeeee.
But what about photos. Do they count as clutter? I'm gonna argue somewhat controversially that yes, yes they do—and I just dumped a whole bunch.
I don't like going back to things. Moments. Haircuts. Old apartments. Forward is my natural motion. And from this 30-something vantage, I do quite honestly believe I'm living the best moment that has ever happened RIGHT FREAKING NOW. Self-helpy, I know. Ugh. But seriously, the more I get to thinking about it, the more the fact that I even have a now seems so fortunate, so impossibly lucky, well it may as well be gold dipped.
So I threw away so many old photos.
It felt glorious! All the trips to Europe with all the old buildings. If I want to see the Eiffel Tower, I'll just look it up. Yes, and all the party pictures. I lived ’em—but I don't need to hang on to ’em. Oh, and hey, all the times I fell in love and then so completely out. Later. Ciao. Au revoir.
I did save a few select pics, though—most of them heartbreakingly cute pictures of old friends and pets. There is a method to my madness.
Tough Stuff
I wanted to give you a post about a serene trek along a lush river to a fairytale campsite, but that would've been for the hike we thought we were going on. Instead, we unexpectedly summited a freaking mountain.
You see, a plan was hatched for the holiday weekend, supplies were quickly purchased, and bags were haphazardly packed. It was, as they say, "no big deal." Except it was. We hadn't read the trail description carefully. We didn't know what we were getting into. This trail, it went uphill, steeply, relentlessly. We had too many pounds on our backs, but not enough water. I gave most of mine to the dog, as he shouldn't suffer for my own dumbness. Although the path was busily sun dappled and views of the volcanoes emerged from the forest, we were all in pain. One hour turned into five, and up we still went ...
Spoiler alert! The story ends with us making it to the fairytale mountain lake. We did not die. We did not give up.
Instead of a glorification of escaping to nature, then, this post is a glorification of doing tough stuff. Like, it's okay when things are hard. It's okay to dig deep. We walked up the side of a mountain, but we felt like we conquered the world. Had we known how bad it'd hurt, would we have undertaken this mission? Maybe not. But maybe, as modern humans, we are too free to choose.
