Crazy Virgo

ENOUGH.

These were innocent – INNOCENT – people. They had nothing to do with one mans anger and discontent. They woke up, ate breakfast, and went about their routine just as you and I did. They burnt their toast, and argued with their child about brushing their teeth a little better, and fed their pets, and kissed their partner as they ran out the door in a hurry to get to their class on time. They had absolutely no clue that it was going to be their last day on Earth.

 

The man killed people he didn’t know. He didn’t have a personal problem with any of them. That we know of, not one of the nine people that died had done something personally to the gunman. There was no ill blood, or disagreement or strife between them. From what I’ve read it seems to have something to do with religious beliefs. Nothing personal, he just didn’t believe what they believed. Unreal.

 

I watched a video of an angry President Obama giving the White House reaction to this situation, and he said that America is becoming numb to these situations. And he is right. But right now, as I’m typing this, I am not numb. I’m crying. I’m fucking crying and fucking angry. I’m crying like I knew someone personally in this latest tragedy. But I don’t know any of the people in Roseburg, or Sandyhook, or Charleston or any of the cities or towns where gun violence has torn apart families. I think to myself, how are those places any different than my town, my community? They aren’t. I think of the two people that I love the most, that are sometimes out of my sight during the day, that could easily be in a public place where this could happen and that scares me. It makes me want to lock the three of us in the bathroom and never leave. But that’s not the life we lead, and that’s not the person I am. However, because of how we treat, or don’t treat, rather, our mentally ill, and how we care more about the right to own powerful weapons than what those weapons can do to innocent people, this killing epidemic will continue to spread. Will we continue to feel unaffected, or will we refuse to live with fear and anxiety and start to act? When is enough, enough?

 

This is not a Democrat, or Republican, or Liberal, or Independent issue. It’s a human issue. There is a raging epidemic of people killing people with guns. One person a day since the beginning of the 2015. 204 people – sons, daughters, wives, husbands, brothers, sisters, teachers, neighbors – have lost their lives innocently [source: http://www.washingtonpost.com/news/wonkblog/wp/2015/07/24/there-have-been-204-mass-shootings-and-204-days-in-2015-so-far/]. This is not about taking guns away. This is about controlling the sale of guns, and responsibly selling and handling them. No one can say this was the responsible sale of a gun to a person who could handle it and use it correctly. I believe in the Constitution and our freedom to bear arms. I do not, however, believe in the freedom to sell guns to anyone that does not submit to an intense background check, interview, and waiting period where they must be educated on owning a gun. I do not believe in opening fire on a group of innocent people. I do not believe in using a gun to eliminate people who are unlike you. I do not believe in using a gun to take out anger on the whole human race.

 

Here’s the thing I’m struggling with this morning, that’s making my hands shake and my chest tight – what can I do? I don’t really have a disposable income to give money to survivors or groups active in gun control, safety and prevention. I can sign my name to petitions, and share articles on facebook. But is that’s not enough. I know I can write and possibly say what a lot of other people are thinking, yet don’t know how to put into words. So I’m doing that. I know I can hug my friends and loved ones tighter today. But man, that doesn’t stop this crisis.

 

Let’s vote.

Let’s talk more.

Let’s scream louder.

Let’s be stronger and unite against this epidemic.

People wear colors to support their fight against health epidemics all the time.

Why aren’t we doing the same for an epidemic that killing people at a much faster rate?

 

Here are organizations that just want to have a future without gun violence. They don’t want to take away guns. They just want to stop killings. Please sign their petitions, stay updated, and talk to your national, state and local representative. If you can donate, please donate. Thanks.

 

http://csgv.org

http://everytown.org

 

https://www.bradycampaign.org/cut-gun-deaths-in-half-by-2025

 

https://secure.americansforresponsiblesolutions.org/page/contribute/default?source=site-home

A Very Unmodest Proposal

 

A year ago I saw you, Guemes Island. I got on your little ferry in a borrowed blue truck and wondered why I’d never noticed you before. All the times I’d driven through Anacortes, down 12^th Street and peered north through the trees to the water, and stood on the deck of the Washington State Ferry I’d never once thought, “hmm, what’s that island with all those houses over there?” Nevertheless, I found you. July, 2013, I found you. For a year I haven’t been able to stay away from you. Every chance I got in the last year I was on your beach, running through your trees, admiring at your sunsets. I’ve become this person that I really like with you. You make me smile, multiple times a day, and that’s so many more times than anything else makes me smile. It’s like sometimes when I’m with you I can’t even sleep because you’re so gorgeous and I just want to look at you. I’ve been lucky enough to be living with you for the last six months, and there’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you.

I love you.

I love you in the summer, which is not hard to love. You’re glorious. Everyday. You look so damned good. You give me so much in the summer – crabs, in a good way; days that don’t end; warm afternoons to laze about on the beach. I love you in the fall when you flash your fancy colors and remind me that I like chilly, foggy days and sweaters and scarves and beanies and morning mist. I even love you in the winter, when it’s not easy to love you. You’re mean in the winter. You don’t play fair. You throw rain in my face, sometimes sideways. You hide the sun from me for days on end. But I love you because it’s so fun to light a fire and snuggle with you and read books and cook comfort food and get a little bit soft and play board games and drink lots of red wine and dark beer. I love you in the spring, when you’re waking up from your nice long winter sleep, and you’re eyes get all watery and moist, and you push the clouds out of the way every so often so we both get a little sun on our faces, and bright colors start appearing and you help the little buds push their way through the soil. We’ve had some incredibly awesome, mind-blowing, I-can’t-believe-I-get-to-live-here days together. But then we’ve also had some getmethefuckoffthisisland days together, too. So yes, even when you’re all pissy, sometimes literally, I am still crazy about you, Guemes. I love you.

 

I love you so much that when I stop to recognize that we’re together my heart beats faster. My mouth goes a little dry. I get flushed. I feel like I’m going to vomit and I have to pee. But nevertheless, I love you, and I want to explore every inch of your green forests and hills and valleys and rocky beaches. I want to know you like the back of my hand. I want to share our souls with each other.

 

It’s terrifying and exciting to ask you this, Guemes Island, so I think that means that I should. In the wise words of Eleanor Roosevelt, “Do one thing every day that scares you.” So here goes, Will you marry me? Will you love me forever and ever and have amazing adventures with me? Will you bring out the best in me and I can bring out the best in you? Can we handle each other’s highs and lows? Can we grow old together and give each other hugs every day until the day we die?

 

Yes? Yes?! You will? We can?! YES! Oh I love you. I love you. I Love You. Thank you Guemes Island, because I’m here to stay. I’m not going anywhere. I’m going to be an islander and have an address here, permanently. You’ve got me. I’m yours. You are everything to me and I want us to be happy ever after. 

Looks Like We Made It

I'm hauling ass down 6th Street. It's a straight shot to the ferry. It's 11:13 a.m.. The ferry leaves at 11:15 a.m. and there's not another ferry until 1 p.m. It's a 25 mph zone. I'm easily going 40 mph. 

"I think we're going to make it, Mama," says LittleVirgo, optimistic as usual. She loves speculating on whether we're going to make the ferry or not, and if we're going to be the front car or side car or last car.

"I hope so babe."

I tear around the corner to the ferry line, totally blowing the stop sign. There's no one there anyway. I see the mechanical arm at the ferry ramp going down. I also see Kirk, my favorite ferry worker, still standing with his ticket puncher. I roll the window down and wave frantically to him, slowing the car down. I see him talk into his walkie-talkie.

"Can we squeeze on?"

"Yeah, we can still squeeze ya on," he says with a smile as I give him my Frequent Rider punch card. "We love ya and you have a cute daughter."

I laugh and smile. "You have no idea how many pickles I've gotten out of with her cuteness. Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!" 

The arm raises just for us and we're the last car on the 11:15.

I've done my fair share of complaining about how hard island living is, and god-knows the rain and gray clouds make it even harder some days, but making the ferry really turned things around for me and LittleV. It's like, we've done it. We've paid our dues. We stuck it out. We worked hard. Now, we've made it. The island opened it's gates just for us, and let us in, and man oh man, it feels good.

This past week LittleV and I were walking from our car, queued in the ferry line, to the bathroom at the ferry building. The sun was brilliantly shining, sailboats were criss-crossing the channel, sea planes were flying overhead, we could smell the salty air. We must have said hello to a dozen people - in their cars in line for the ferry, coming off th ferry, waiting to walk on the ferry. The "Guemes Tide" - our local, monthly newspaper, did a story this month on me and the book I'm writing about the island. The sun is setting at 9:08 p.m. We went to visit a goat farm on the island and they sent us home with fresh chevre and soap. It's just getting better and better. Sure, summer in the PNW is extraordinary and perfect and not too hot and not too cold, and it's the easiest time to live here. I'm just sayin'... I think we've made it.

Living in Once Upon A Time

The car ferry, MV Guemes, was out this week for scheduled service. If you were on the island or a walk-on for the ferry, you heard nothing but moans and groans from residents for the past week. "You heard that ol' sonofabitch is out for service didn'cha? We'll be lucky if we get 'er back in a week." This left us islanders - yes, I'm calling myself that these days - with service from a passenger-only ferry from Monday to Friday. The sweet little Straight Arrow.

There was a mass exodus of cars last Sunday, a ritual that islanders snapped to mechanically. They'd been doing this since the dawn of time. Park one car on the Anacortes side, leave one car on the island. I, of course, decided, "Nah. What do I need a car for in Anacortes? LittleVirgo and I have a bike, bike trailor and our healthy legs. We're a mile from the dock on the island, and everything we do in Anacortes is in a two mile radius of the ferry." So I left my car on the island, determined to "rough it," and survive the ferry outage the old fashioned way. 

Monday morning we get a hustle on and make the 8:30 a.m. ferry on the bike with trailor in tow, and arrived at the ferry dock to find smiling faces and chatting islanders at the ferry, not snarling old people bitching about the inconvenience of a walk-on only situation. A gang of gray-haired gents are milling about the pop-up coffee stand, Riff Raff Coffee, chatting up it's salty owner, Mycle Recycle.

A group of ladies at the dock are discussing the upcoming plants and pie sale over Memorial Day at the community center. Everyone remarks about the gorgeous weather we've been having and the caterpillar infestation. LittleV, friendly as always, starts up a conversation with an old man she doesn't know about his fishing pole. She knows no strangers on this island. And I take it all in. Where else in the world is this happening? This easy-going, how ya doin', know your neighbor, shoot the breeze morning scene is a page written by Garrison Keillor. It is the most quintessential tableau I've ever seen, and certainly been a part of. 

The ferry arrives from Anacortes. The mechanical arm on the loading ramp lifts and the Anacortes passengers walk off the ferry as we, Guemes passengers, pass them walking on. 

"Hi Nancy." "Hey there Bart." "Haven't seen you in a while, John." "Patsy! How are the goats?"

Our friend, Carson, passes us. "Hey Carson," LittleVirgo says waving. "Hi Sylvia!" Carson returns with a smile.

The sun is making the water dance and sparkle like magic. The clouds are torn pieces of cotton overhead. Tugboats toot by. I push the bike on while LittleVirgo helps as always, her little hand holding on to the handlebars with mine. Can it be like this forever please? We stand on the deck of the Straight Arrow, smiles plastered on our faces, wind gentle playing with our hair. LittleVirgo asks me to hold her so she can see down into the water. 

"Mama, do you know what those swirls are?"

I look down. She's talking about the engine of the boat churning the water. I open my mouth to start explaining what's happening when she interrupts me with her own explanation.

"That's mermaids singing under water. That's what's making all the beautiful swirls, Mama."

I'm speechless. She's brilliant. That's exactly what's making those swirls, sweet girl.

We strike up a conversation with a man that we had seen on the beach digging for clams during low tide the day before. LittleVirgo had, of course, wanted to know and see everything that was happening during their dig, and he and his wife had obliged her happily. He told us he was going shrimping the next day, where the good shrimping spots were, explaining the exact location as if I was taking my own boat there too, and then asked us our story. Everyone does that mostly. LittleVirgo is nectar to older islanders, and a novelty to the younger crowd. 

The crossing is short, just under five minutes, so we say good-bye to our new friend, Martin, and wish him well on his shrimping excursion. LittleVirgo waves to the ferry workers, forcing even the crankiest of the crew to crack a smile. 

And this is how it is all week, only every day it gets better. We meet more people. We exchange more smiles. We learn more names. We pet more dogs. We hear more chatter.

"Linda, I've been meaning to stop by. I've got a book for you to read."

"Chantal, did you get that lettuce I left for you?"

"Bob, you're back from Alaska!"

I got advice about my ant problem, learned where to get the best honey on the island and finally got the name of the bird I love to hear - a warbler. 

Today when I arrived at the ferry to return to Guemes after my workday I was sad to see the car ferry was done with its service early. Cars were parked in the ferry line. Islanders were back behind glass again. Just smiles and waves.

Once upon a time, we lived on a little island that sparkled like a green jewel, and we all felt how magical it was, because we all remembered to take a minute, say hello, enjoy our daily grind and remember how lucky we are to be residents of this incredible place. We talked to each other and enjoyed conversation and made the most of the five minutes we had together.

To long-time Guemes residents this week may have been just another ferry outage but to me and LittleV it was a fairy tale. It was an experience that we'll tell people about and they'll think we're embellishing, but it's like I've been saying about Guemes Island for almost a year now, things happen over here that just don't happen on dry land.

I am woman hear me yell profanities at the top of my lungs

I would consider myself a strong woman.

At age 8 I crawled up an aluminum slatted slide that was clearly made for only going down, sliced my knee open and hobbled the five blocks home while bleeding. I still have a scar to prove it.

I withstood my formative years being teased and called "sarah pees-her-pants" because of a kindergarten pants-peeing incident only to shake it off and garner a new nickname in 8th Grade - "Charmin" - thanks to a bra-stuffing incident.

 

I went to college in the 90s, chopped all my hair off so I wouldn't be identified by my "beauty", and withstood all unecesaary, stereotypical lesbian jokes that comes with that.

I got hit by a car while riding my bike. I have two tattoos. I gave birth to a child, naturally. 

So, yeah. All in all, I think I'm a pretty emotionally and somewhat physically strong woman. No, I don't do ironmans, or climb mountains, or push huge tractor trailor tires around parking lots for strength training. But, I don't crumble in the face of hardship or humiliation or a challenge. My history has shown me that when I set my mind on something I don't stop until it's accomplished, no matter what. To me, that's strength. 

This year was one of my strongest years to date. I left LittleVirgo for a whole month to start writing a novel while living on an island 20 hours drive away from her. I had to put my 13-ish year-old beagle to sleep during the first two weeks I was on the island, away from her. Then I decided to uproot my life and hers and live on the island without any idea of what happens next - away from everyone.

The first month here, on beautiful Guemes Island, was the honeymoon. There were more sunny days than rainy days. The cozy cabin we're living in for the summer oozes charm out of every nook and cranny, and there are actual nooks and crannies. Everything was new and exciting and novel. So what if there were ants in the house. It's an island, right? The ferry is 30 minutes off schedule? Whatever. It's part of the island charm. LittleVirgo and I were going to be the belles of the island for sure. People would honk and wave and think, "There are those two adorable girls from Boulder." We'd have the loveliest days walking to the beach near our cabin, and learning the tide tables and identifying sea life. And even when it rained, we'd just put on our boots and keep going. 

Now it's the nearing the middle of month two. Honeymoon over. And this strong woman, who, for many years has looked adversity in the face and sang, Hear Me Roar, would rather yell fuckingFUUUUCKdamnitshitallhelldamnitassholeheadFUUUUUCK at the top of her lungs.

Turns out, moving to an island by myself is harder than I thought. 

On the drive here, during a snowstorm outside of Bozeman, Montana, the winshield wiper blade I'd just had replaced blew off its arm, leaving one functioning windsheild wiper, the passenger side of course, and one metal arm scraping across an ice-filled windshield. Normally, I'd have the man in my life or my dad replace it for me. Neither of those things are an option so I taught myself how to install a wiper blade in a snowstorm. Damnit.

The cabin we live in is  so unbelivably charming I could eat it for dessert every night. Seriously, it's probably been the inspiration for a nautical poem where the wife stays home and tends the fire (woodstove) while ye husband is out to sea. She paces the porch awaiting her gentleman to return home and alas, sees him off in the distance trudging up the road from Cook's Cove, where's he docked his fishing boat and sings him an ancient mariner's tune. But, it does have a bit of an ant problem. I thought I'd nipped it in the bud during week two by investing in some ant traps filled with, what seemed to be, ant heroin that had every ant in a mile radius beelining it to these traps, lapping up the clear liquid. They were supposed to live just long enough to take it back to their queen, kill her and the rest of the ant colony, and that would be that. Ant genocide. It was quiet for a day or two, but little by little, they've been reappearing. LittleVirgo has even created an Ant Can where she puts ants that she catches with her fingers. Just when I think I've got them all, a new little black ant crawls out from under a rug and I clench my fingers. FuckingAssholes!

I hired a part-time nanny for LittleVirgo back in February while I was getting everything in place to move to the island. She seemed great on paper. Long story short, she wasn't. After confronting her for purchasing movies from iTunes and not being repaid for these movies, she quit on me with no notice, leaving me and LittleV to freelance together. Oh, and she's in full-on "mama i wanna heeeeelp" mode all the time. If I'm sitting at my laptop typing she's got her fingers between mine typing too. I love LittleVirgo, but Mama's gotta work and pay the bills. Shit all hell.

And speaking of LittleVirgo, she's coming into her own out here on the island. And again, I type this next part with all the love in the world for the little girl I gave natural childbirth too, she's driving me batshit crazy. I love her. I do. She's a spirited, independant, stubborn, strong-willed child. She's me, at three years old. It's a minute-to-minute practice of patience with her. Especially because now it's on 24/7, where as before, I shared time with her Dad. (Note: I'm not going into how we share her time now. This post is not about that. Thanks.)  So we're together all the time, singing the "Frozen" soundtrack and Baby Beluga, playing with a family of slugs she's adopted, and collecting every seashell on this island. There have been plenty of nights after lights out, which is hard to explain to her up here above the 42 parallel where daylight lasts until 9ish p.m. and there are no lights to turn out, that I've taken whatever the alcohol du jour is, found safe haven on the front porch and closed the door behind me, leaving her to figure out sleepy time on her own. Really, I want to yell GOTHEFUCKTOSLEEP, but I exhale and drink my wine. 

I ran out of firewood to keep the cabin warm. I could pay for a half-rick (I think that's the measurement, anyway) of wood, but I'm kind of cheap. I don't have a truck to go pick it up. I don't want to pay delivery cost, and quite frankly, I just keep forgetting to do it until the day here and there that it gets a bit chilly at night. Tonight is one of those nights. It's been in the upper 60s for a week or so, even on cloudy days, and I've gotten used to not needing anything more than an extra blanket at night. It's been raining for two days, and the wet chill set in this afternoon. There's was one huge chunk of wood in the rack, that if split up, would be a good four-hour fire. So, I hauled it out to the wood-splitting stump, stood it on it's end,  told LittleVirgo to stand back because of course she's on my tail, picked up the ax and heaved it over my shoulder and totally missed. I tried several more times, always reminding myself to look where I wanted to hit, but I couldn't figure out which side the ax felt more comfrotable on, which side should I swing. I kept throwing it over my shoulder and then launching it into the wood and it would get stuck. Obviously I wasn't hitting the grain right, I deducted. After the tenth swing with no results, nearly dislocating my arm, I looked over my shoulder at LittleVirgo who said, You look funny mama, and nearly launched into a poem of woodchopping profanity. MOTHERCHUCKINGFUCKINGWOOD. 

GAAAAAAAAHHHHHH.

In case you thought every day on an island was a perfect, glorious day. It's not. In case you thought I was just living it up out here, cruising on sailboats every day and kayaking through coves and along shorelines. I'm not. In case you thought a handsome man was delivering fresh seafood to my door, he's not. And don't even get me started on the absense of dating out here, or how I look like a harried single mom with dark circles under my eyes and and a tantruming child in tow every time I see a good looking man. Yes. I'm living a dream. My dream. Don't get me wrong. I love it. So much. But for once I find myself not feeling so strong. Wanting to stomp my feet instead of roaring. Wanting to curse the Universe and my lack of strength instead of praising them.

Turns out, life is easier if you just stay put in the comfy zone. That's not me though. Never has been. I'm sure I'll revisit that old Helen Reddy tune someday and roar again. Right now, I'm gonna keep creating new explicatives and perfecting my profanity. Sonofabitchassfuckingpissantshittingcocksucker.

 

Islander-in-training

So it's been a few weeks (20 days) that I've been living on Guemes Island and really it's officially my second month, since I already spent a full month here in January. I like to think of it as my second month because, like everything in my life, I'm in a hurry, and this time it's to become an islander. And though I've heard being a Guemes Islander is based on state-of-mind more than time spent, I think the longer I'm here, the more I can genuinely claim that I'm an islander. 

[sidebar: if you don't know me all that well, here's a tip - once i decide upon something i want it to happen immediately, no ifs ands or buts, and have a really hard time being patient and just letting things happen. it's a virgo trait, a bad one, and one that i say that i'm working on, but really give the finger to.]

Back in January I asked a friend on the island, a real islander, what it took to be one of the tribe. I was met with an eye-roll and a laugh. "Sarah this isn't New York City! It doesn't take 10 years to be called an islander here. You either are or you aren't." Well, as you may assume, I immediately thought, "I was." Just the fact that I wanted to be on Guemes Island during the hardest month, January, where the gray, thick cloud ceiling is merely inches above ones head, and the mist pricks your face like a thousand tiny needles all day long and the sun sits above many layers of clouds laughing at the whole Pacific Northwest for almost the entire month, well that really says something. And I made it through the whole month with a smile on my face, and then I came back. Oh, yeah. I'm an islander for sure. Plus, I'm already a laid-back, fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants, crazy, free-spirited fool anyway. That's always part of the description of anyone living on an island. I was certain, on my way here almost a month ago, that it was going to take less than a minute for me to acclimate to the less-is-more, let it go, relaxed, mindful, easy-going lifestyle of Guemes Island. I thought I'd park my car, empty my bags and immediately be a zenned out naturalist. 

Ha! 

I've found out quickly that my easy-going-ness is in the context of normal urban life. Island life is a whole new level of easy-going. I guess I didn't notice during January because I was so focused on writing a book, distracted by my  aging dementia-ridden beagle and the fact that I was living out of a suitcase and was returning to Boulder. Island living was just a novelty to me then. Now the shit is real. 

I'm not complaining. No, no, no. It's more like reflecting and revising and reporting back to you, friends. Far be it from me to keep my island adventures from you. I'm happy to be the crazy one for you, so that you can stay in the comfort of wherever you're reading this from - Chicago, Seattle, NYC, Boulder, San Francisco, North Carolina - and live vicariously. 

So here I am, Ms. Laid Back, totally keyed up on all this islandness. Not really, but again, to know me is to know I'm dramatic. Here are the things that I haven't gotten used to yet -

well water: most all water here on the island is well water, and it's fine to drink, but tastes a little wangy. That's not the problem. The problem is that my scalp hates it. It's red and irritated and itchy. Sad face. I have to go see a dermatologist for the first time ever and probably take a break from using my luxurious, exotic smelling Morroccan oil shampoo and conditioner for some clinical, stinking prescription shit. First world problems, right?

ants: big black ones share the house with us. They crawl on the floor, the walls, my leg.They haven't overtaken us or anything, and I haven't  crunched one in a bite of salad yet, but they're more around than I'd like. I've set ant traps in the hopes that they might solve the problem so I don't have to RAID the place, but no luck. I've casually mentioned that I have an ant problem to my friends on the island, careful not to complain or be seen as a wuss, and for the most part they've all just nodded and moved on with new conversation, which to me means, shut up wuss. It's an island.

inconsistent ferry schedule: it's late as much as it's on time. And, because there's little to complain about on this beautiful little island, everyone complains about the ferry. I've joined the crowd. 

absentmindedness: I thought I was flighty and flakey, but again, it's in the context of regular urbanism. As an islander-to-be, I'm an anal retentive bitch. I'm all about following up, tidying up, making notes - all that behavior that comes from working in an office and having a 9-5 career for 15 years. I'm not saying it's bad or anything, but here, on the island, people just aren't concerened with any of that. And rightly so. Why would you care about answering a text or a phone call, or being on time, or cleaning up dishes when there are beaches to be walked? (well, I mean, there is one reason, see:ants)

businesses being closed from 12-1: Not everything is closed for lunch hour, but a lot of businesses, including the ferry and my storage unit, lock up for lunch. They ferry stops rom 11:15-1. You can imagine that it doesn't really phase a true islander. They're fine to sit and have a beer and lunch, or walk the beach, or whatever. It's like siesta time here. But me, an islander with training pants on, it still annoys me. 

I thought I was already an islander. I am not. I want to be though, so really I have nothing to do but be patient. I can't force myself to be ok with my ants, or the internal struggle I have between washing the dirty dishes or taking a beach walk, or the fact that I really need something done between the hours of 12 and 1 p.m. I have to exhale a little bit more of my anal nature every day and hope that sometime soon I won't give a second thought to time, over-the-top cleanliness, scheduling, or my itchy scalp and less aromatic shampoo and conditioner.  I just hope that all happens in 5-10 days from now. 

It's Oh So Quiet

It's been a week now that I've officially lived on beautiful Guemes Island, and here's the thing - I LOVE IT. Sure. Sure. It's still the honeymoon phase. I'm still in awe of the novelties of island living - taking the ferry, giving a two finger wave to every car I pass on the road, random dogs roaming about, daily trips to the beach. What's not to love, right? But, I do really, honestly love it. All of it. And what I love most - it's SO FREAKING QUIET HERE. Well, it's quiet other than the symphony of frogs, raindrops, light wind in the trees and, in daylight hours, chirping birds and the occassional rooster. Nature's soundtrack has replaced traffic, sirens, loud music from cars, people yelling. I love it. Sure, it's only been a week, and in a month I may crave a stray siren in the night, or a car alarm going off, but right now, as of this very moment, I'm in love with the deafening mating call of the tree frogs. 

When I sit outside, I can actually hear my own thoughts. Little Virgo runs arouns chattering, making up songs, talking to plants and seashells and I just listen to nature and what's going on in my head. It's so crazy to leave a city - is Boulder a city or a town? - and realize how much noise there is in our lives. It's a constant buzz that we don't even notice anymore. Here, there's nothing. Sometimes two or three hours pass without a car driving by the cabin and I start to wonder what everyone else is doing; where'd everybody go? City habits die hard. 

I find myself wanting to break the silence sometimes, but I don't. Little V loves to do it. She'll just scream, hello! at the top of her lungs. So she takes care of the urge for both of us. It's like when someone is cutting your bangs and there's hair on your nose and you want to blow it off or wipe it off with your hand but you can't because it will screw up the haircut. You're just dying, DYING, to get that trimming off your nose, but you know if you do, the stylist will just have to stop, be annoyed (but not you, Annie Luna) and the look at the whole situation again. If I pierce the natural quiet I'll interrupt the thoughts that have been muted in my head for so long by all the other noise. I'm gonna try not to, because I really love this quiet thing, this island thing, this quiet island Virgo. 

AHHHHHHHHHHH. just kidding.

Shhhhh.

Here I Go Again on My Own…..

"This is your life. Do what you love and do it often." - Holstee Manifesto

If you've never read the Holstee Manifesto, you should. It might change your life, if you let it. It changed mine and here I am, blogging from Guemes Island, WA - a tiny, unknown island in the Puget Sound.

 

Today, I'm marrying the Holstee Manifesto and the lyrical genius of Whitesnake. Who would've thought that a highly designed yet simple manifesto for life would have anything in common with a glam, 80s hairband, but they do. Oh, they really do. 

The Holstee Manifesto is about living life to its fullest without fear or doubt or hestitation and sharing all of that with the people around you. It's this inspiration that lead me to move to Guemes Island for 6 months with Little Virgo without knowing what the heck comes next. I have no idea if it will be 6 months or 6 years that we'll be here. I do know that the universe guided us here, and though it was scary as hell to leave the comfortable confines of the Boulder Bubble after seven amazing years, I did it. Yes, there are much worse places I could be than on an island during its best seasons. But that's the thing, isn't it? I chose to be on the island during its best seasons. "travel often. getting lost will help you find yourself." and why not?

And here's where the brilliance of Whitesnake comes in. Several days ago, sitting in the drivers seat of my trusty Jetta, I looked through the windshield of my car at the vastness of I-25 dissecting Wyoming's rough and tumble landscape  and found myself singing, "Here I go again on my own. Going down the only road I've ever known. Like a drifter I was born to walk alone. But I've made up my mind. I ain't wasting no more time." And I got excited. I got butterflies in my stomach. My palms sweated a little bit. I'm going down this road that's so familiar to me. Maybe I've always done it this way, but never really noticed. And now, in this more mindful way of living, I'm noticing. I'm a drifter - the good kind. I'll land on my feet. I'll end up where I'm supposed to end up. It's the alone part I could have never done without my belief in the Holstee Manifesto. I would have never understood that this IS my life, and if I have to go it alone, at least for this part of the journey, then damnit, I'M muthereffing DOING IT! 

I'll be blogging my adventures from the island for the next several months while I finish my first novel (also still freelance writing - shameless self-promotion). I hope you tune in, leave your comments, and share in the excitement.

If you haven't seen this video in a while, and why would you have, do yourself a favor and give 4:32 to the masterpiece that is 80s videos:

 

 

 

An island of one's own

I’ve met my soul mate. It’s an island. But, it’s not an island like you’re thinking. It’s not all white sand beaches and palm trees. It’s in the most unsuspecting place, just off the northwest coast of Washington State in the San Juan – here’s a word I love to use - archipelago. The island didn’t woo me with its 4-star restaurants or luxurious hotels, because there aren’t any. It’s not that kind of island. I wasn’t wooed at all. I was quietly touched by its lush, green forests, perfect blue waters, salty sea breezes, smooth, pebbled, agate-filled beaches. I was captivated by its early, quiet sunrises and long, lingering sunsets. I was in awe of the friendly reception I received from the locals. I don’t quite know what I’m feeling about Guemes Island, but it’s something that resembles love.

Hey, I’ve been places. I’ve seen things. I’ve lived in San Francisco, Chicago, and I currently live in Boulder for the love of God! Every day as I drive out of my neighborhood I stare at the gorgeous Flatirons and foothills of this coveted, pretentious bubble of a town. I ride my bike and gaze at the pastoral, dramatic landscape around me, and I get to call it home. And what’s more, I lived in Seattle for almost six years. I’ve been to the San Juan Islands before; just never this little hidden gem of an island.

Beautiful destinations are nothing new to me. I’ve experienced the coast of Italy and France; the mountains and beaches of Belize; the pubs of London; the boulangeries of Paris; the Guggenheim in Bilboa and pintxos bars in San Sebastian, Spain; the glorious rainforests in the Virgin Islands; the fishing villages of Mexico. But there’s something, I can't quite put my finger on it, but it resembles the embodiment of the word, genuine, about Guemes Island that stirs my soul. There is an unmatched natural beauty that mesmerizes, silences and allows life to happen on the simplest of terms. The way the young natives adopted me and took me in like I was a part of their family was an experience that doesn’t happen on dry land. We sat together on the beach and talked about everything and nothing - for hours upon hours. They took me sailing. They had a beach BBQ, in my honor. They played guitars and flutes and serenaded me, and the best part was, we didn’t even know each other, but that didn’t matter. All that did was that we were living, and being, and enjoying each minute and each other and the island.

            I’m 36 years-old. My life is just fine. I don’t need any beautiful, soft-spoken, romantic island interrupting my daily routine and taking over my emotions. I know how to do everything my own way. I’m not afraid of anything! Except, apparently, being in love. And that revelation didn’t hit me until the moment I set foot on this little island in the Puget Sound. Because when I did, a wave of uncertainty and surprise and relief and warmth washed over me, and covered me like the beach at high tide; and that tide hasn’t gone out yet.

What started as a writing retreat over five perfect July day became a love affair. Guemes Island made me smile bigger, feel deeper, and live more fully than I have for as long as I can remember. It made me say, yes, to everything. It made me forget about time and my iPhone and answering email and any responsibility waiting for me back on the mainland. I didn’t shower, and I didn’t care. I looked in the mirror and I saw me, staring back at me. Who had I been every other day before you, Guemes Island?

I was inspired to write like I'd never written before. The words couldn't travel from my brain to my fingers fast enough. Maybe it was the ever present smell of freshness, or the stillness of the air, or the constancy of green and blue everywhere I looked. I don't know, but the island became my muse, my inspiration, my partner. I wanted to grab her, hug her and never let her go. So I won't.

 Yes, I’m in love with an island, and it’s totally unrealistic to think we could be together. But as I sit here, landlocked, surrounded by people and creature comforts and tall buildings, I wonder, why can’t it be reality? I don’t have the answer to that, so until we meet again Guemes Island – and we will, oh yes, we will – I love you.

 

 

 

 

Fear.

Someone recently asked me what my biggest fear was, in response to divuldging their biggest fear to me. 

"Ummm. Hmmmm.... you know, I'm not sure," was my response. And honestly, at that moment I wasn't really sure. I mean, I knew I had to have one, right? Surely I had one. I didn't want to come off as a smug, fearless asshole. It was one of those tit-for-tat situations - like when someone tells you how much they weign or something. YOu can't leave them hanging. But, I really and truly dind't know. So I settled on, "let me get back to you on that one."

I pondered on this question for several days. The obvious fears - breaking a bone, being hit by a car, something happening to LittleVirgo - are things I can't truly say are my biggest fears. I don't really think about those things at all because if I did, I'd be an anxiety-ridden medicated mess. There must be something I'm afraid of, but I couldn't figure it out. 

I live in constant uncertainty.I stare the unknown in the face on a daily basis because I chose to give up the safety of a 9 to 5 job. I don't know if I'll have any money in 6 months because I work for myself. I chose to be divorced, so I don't fear being alone. But also, I don't know if I'll ever have a great love again. I choose not to fear that, but be hopeful. I don't fear pain because I had a natural, no drugs child birth. I don't know who will die first, her or me. But, because I chose to bring her into this world, I can't fear that. I"m not afraid of conflict and hate and anger, because I've dealt with an angry person for the last year by getting a divorce. I survived the shame and disappointment of getting a DUI, so I don't fear judement. I have a huge heart, and I let people in all the time, and my heart is real and true, and most men don't know how to handle all that real-ness, so they leave, therefore I'm not afraid of rejection. Really, I'm not. I've been rejected more times than I care to count. 

So if I don't fear the unknown, or poverty, or lonliness, or pain, or death, or conflict, or judgment or rejection then what is there left to fear?

Oh, don't worry. I found that out in a yoga class this past week. Bear with me here.... this is a good one.

I go to a womens-only yoga class every Tuesday morning. I'm not bragging. I've only gone twice. It's just as you might imagine a Boulder, womens-only yoga class to be. A kaleidescope of women of all ages, shapes, colors and sizes. Our mats go in a circle, pointing toward the center of the room. An amazing yogi named Kristin, who has a wonderfully calming yoga voice, teaches the class mostly wearing tie-dyed, funky yoga pants. The class starts by introducing ourselves to the group and tell how we are feeling - in the present moment, of course. Then Kristin sets an intention or theme for the class. On this particular Tuesday, our intention was about loving ourselves. She opened with a joke, "ha, like women in Boulder in a yoga class don't love themselves, right?" But, then she went on to say that she meant loving all the icky parts and the corners of ourselves where there are cobwebs and things hiding, or maybe a pile of dirty laundry we don't want to touch. This resonated with me, so I held decided I would hold the intention the entire practice. I thought of all the outward things I had done to "love" myself - massages, weekly mani/pedis, vacations all by myself, dates with just me.  All these things were searching, avoiding the real way to love myself: looking inward. So I did it. I looked inward, and holy shit. I was messy and broken in there. It was scary and dark. I didn't "love" what I saw at all. I heard Kristen say, "Imagine that person who loves you unconditionally and love yourself like that." LittleVirgo appeared in my mind, hair messy from playing outside in the summer heat, cherry popsicle stained face, happy and joyful. She loves me. She tells me all the time, I love you mama! Why can't I love myself as simply as she does? And then, while holding the hardest position in class, the culmination of the practice, the reason we all showed up, I lost it.

But let me describe the scene for you: The position looks like you're squatted against a wall, but there is no wall, and your arms are suspended above your head, like you're holding a beach ball. Your legs start to shake. Your arms start to shake. Your core feels like its on fire. All the while Kristen is guiding you through the pain, telling you that the shaking is your edge. It's all the stuff that you don't want to see, and it's your choice if you want to push through it or back away from your edge. I wanted to run away from it; so far away from my edge that I couldn't even see it with a pair of binoculars. But I didn't. I rose above it. My legs were shaking but I couldn't feel them. I let everything out. All the emotion I had blocked inside a deep, dark place came out. My eyes were closed. I was squatted. My hands were above my head and there were tears and snot cascasding down my face. I was sobbing and breathing. I was feeling. And that feeling was Fear. It was coming out of a dusty, cluttered, forgotten, dirty corner of my being. It was a fear of love, becuase even though I had fawned all over myself and pampered myself with clothes and shoes and perfume and vacations, I hadn't turned that love inward and loved all the parts of me that I thought were unlovable. So I did. I told myself, through snotted inhales and exhales, that I loved my flat, square butt, and my imperfect nose, and the mole on the right side of my nose, and the soft part of my tummy that would probably never be firm again, and my deflated boobs, and my clumsyness, and all of my oddities that I had heard so many times in my past weren't lovable. Then I sat in child's pose, prostrated, and while Kristen told us to give ourselves over to the moment, and add a little extra tenderness, I wept more, because I hadn't done that. Ever. I let go of the guilt of not doing that. Of not treating my soul like a queen. Of not looking myself in the eye everyday and telling myself that I'm perfect just as I am. I let myself cry and feel it and breathe it. I was ugly crying, too, but it felt beautiful and free.

At the end of practice, I opened my eyes and felt a hundred pounds lighter. A huge emotional weight had been lifted off of me.

So, my biggest fear? Being loved. And now it's not. I'm going to love me, every perfecetly imperfect part of me, and I'm going to let other people love me too. I never finished the conversation with my friend. It wasn't really necessary, because I finished the conversation with myself.