Crazy Virgo

Life Lessons of a Road Warrior

I recently completed 30 days that changed my life. 

I didn't do a cleanse, or a yoga challenge, or a training program. These things are all great and really admirable and I totally think you're rad if you do them; I'm just too lazy to do them. No, I spent 30 days traveling with my manfriend, spending all day every day together and living/sleeping in the comfy confines of a pimped out Dodge Caravan. One learns things about oneself during such an extended amount of time living outside of ones comfort zone, especially when said roadtrip went from 2 weeks to 30 days. When you do anything for 30 days straight you tend to learn something about yourself. On a cleanse you probably learn that your body doesn't need sugar or a entire bag of sea salt/lime/soy sauce tortilla chips at one sitting, or a double shot Americano with 1/2 & 1/2 every day to survive. There's introspection that comes from practicing yoga every day for 30 days. You find strength in a 30 day training program. What did I find out about myself after 30 days as a road warrior? So much that I feel compelled to blog about it. 

I guess I should back up. I have a manfriend - we'll call him My Man. It's something I haven't been very public with because it's really only been going on a few minutes, and well, because I like to keep my private life private. But he's crutial to this story, so out he comes. My Man and I have really only been together 4 months. One of these four months was just spent cruising the western part of America in the aforementioned Dodge Caravan. Her name is Ann. Ann the Van. 

Here's how the story goes, and then I'll get to the "what I learned" stuff. My Man drove to Boulder to be my arm candy at two dear friend's wedding. When I'd asked him to be my date several weeks earlier he'd suggested that he would drive to meet me there and we would take a road trip back to where we live on Guemes Island. What?! A road trip sleeping under the stars, hiking and cuddling around a campfire with my amazing super sexy manmeat? uhm OK! Sign me up! So we decided on taking roughly two weeks to get back to the island, possibly touring through Utah, a few hot springs and breweries in Oregon, the WA coast. You know... a jaunt, a road holiday. Nothing big. Just a little road trip. So he pimped out Ann the Van with a platform bed that had drawer storage underneath that propped up during the day to be a futon-type sitting space, and a console that fit between our two captains chairs that was shoe and book storage. Yeah. Seriously. He built all that in, like, two afternoons. Attached my Thule car topper along with a dry goods storage box on the top of Ann and we were set. I shan't tell a lie; it was dreamy  actually, super dialed-in, and lucky me, he's not only a carpenter, but a semic OCD/anal perfectionist carpenter, so this wasn't just a thrown together job. It was pi-imp. Oh, and the bed was reallllly comfy. There were a handful of cold nights on the road that I commented from the cozy confines inside of Ann, "sucks to be in a tent right now." Yeah. We certainly weren't roughing it. 

So off we went, and immediately the best laid plans of a two week road trip flew out the window. It took us almost a week just to get out of Colorado. We started in Breck for an overnight and a hike. Then we stopped off in Ridgway (between Ouray and Telluride) to stay at the ranch of a friend's mom and boyfriend and lo and behold, totally fell head over heels in love with them and their gorgeous ranch and stayed three nights in their pimped out yurt. After we realized we couldn't stay there forever and actually had to drive more than a few hundred miles on this roadtrip, we pushed on 45 miles down the road to Telluride. We stayed there a few nights because we just kept waiting to see if anything good turned up in the Telluride free box. (Sidenote: We only came away with a set of stainless steel dipping bowls.) 

Then came Utah. WOW! UTAH! I had no idea what to expect, but WOW! It took us another week to get through the state not because the beer was soooo amazing - is 4% beer even beer?!?! – but, because Utah is UN.Real. Unreal I tell you and it just takes a while to see a whole lot of unrealness. If you haven't been to Arches, Canyonlands, Zion or Bryce Canyon, get yourself a National Parks pass, a tent or a camper, or better yet a manfriend who can outfit a Dodge Caravan for you, and get thyself there. It's beyond beautiful. It's prehistoric, mind-blowing landscape will leave you in awe. In fact, at times it left me speechless. ME! 

So after the original two weeks we thought it would take us to get back to Guemes Island, we weren't a mile closer than we'd been when we started. In fact at one point we were further. We were having so much fun we just kept going. And here's where I started learning things. Two weeks is managable. Two weeks is easy. Anyone can do two weeks. It's all smiles and clean clothes and if you're dirty and unshowered, meh... you'll shower eventually because you'll be home soon. Well at two weeks I was nowhere near home. I was staring at the same three short sleeve shirts, two long sleeve shirts, two sweatshirts, two shorts, one hiking pants and one pair of jeans that I'd packed. I'd been showering mostly with the solar shower we'd packed, which meant a soft, light spray of water from a one-gallon bag dangling from a tree, most of the time after dark, in the cold. Things started getting real. And here's what I started to learn about myself:

I'm mildly scared of the dark. Yep. I'm 37, and I'm a bit afraid of the pitch blackness that happens after the sun sets, and what is roaming around me in the pitch blackness. Now, before this road trip, I guess I've always had an awareness of animals prowling around at night, especially when camping. But I grew up camping in tents and never really had a problem with the dark. Heck, I welcomed it becasue it meant s'mores time and ghost stories. But for some reason, almost immediately at the beginning of our trip, when I'd wake up to go pee at night and get out of the van, I'd have visions of blood-thirsty mountain lions or ravenous bears needing to pack on the pounds before hibernation or some such human-hungry predatory animal attacking me whilst I squatted to relieve myself. Maybe it was the vastness of the desert canyonlands or woodedness of the mountains where we camped, but soon after we'd arrive and choose our campsite for the night I'd casually ask My Man, "so, uhhm, what kind of animals live around here? Are we talking bears? Cougars? Or just your garden variety coyotes and deer?" I wasn't really scared of coyotes or deer. Why? I don't know. Nothing about this fear makes sense, does it? They didn't seem as ferocious. Without fail every night I'd wake up, fight off the I-really-gotta-go-pee sensation for 30 minutes, give in to my urge, strap on my headlamp, cautiously exit the van, pick a spot that was close enough to the van that I could jump back in if I heard a bear approaching, but far enough away that My Man wouldn't hear me peeing, or there wouldn't be a puddle of pee to step in the next morning, and commence to pee while swiveling my headlamp left to right searching for the mountain lion that was no doubt waiting in the bushes, licking his chops, hungry for my ladyflesh and just waiting to tear into my ass. At one point when we were in Crater Lake, Oregon, bear presence was so likely there were bear-proof lockers at each campground. Imagine my distress at having to go pee. Every single time I was out of the van answering nature's call I was just positive I was going to see a fierce mama bear thundering toward me, angry steam billowing out of her big mama bear snout. Oh, and here's the other thing, we were so active during the day, and all through Utah it was really hot, that I was drinking a lot of water. So sometimes I'd have to pee two or three times a night, which offered me up to attacks even more. And each time I made it back into the van alive I thanked the heavens and the universe for letting me live one more bathroom break. I know this fear is silly. I know. But I couldnt' shake it. Nor did I ever confess this to My Man, until he reads this now obviously, because he would have had a heyday with his fear. He's amazing and sensitive and kind and loving, but he  thoroughly enjoys getting a rise out of his over-dramatic, easily provoked, reactive lady friend. Now that I'm back on the island am I scared of the dark? No. Not at all. And I wasn't before I left either. It was  a totally isolated fear tied to being out in the wild of the state and national park system. Plus, I know that there's really not anything predatory on this island except coyotes and drunk old men.

Net learning here: I have an overactive imagination.

I would lose "The Amazing Race" to the old couple. You know the sweet old couple, married for 50 years that are always invited to be on the show because they're cute, and the network doesn't want to be accused of being ageist, but they are always the first team out because they're slow and can't figure out technology or maps? Yeah, I'd lose to that team. On this 30-day road adventure I learned that I have shitty map skills and even worse sign reading skills and I am a sub-par navigator. I figured this one out all by myself. My Man didn't have to help a bit. In fact, he just let me figure it out while standing on the sidelines watching patiently with his ever-present smile. And if that wasn't sweet enough, he went along with my poor direction, trusting me to know which way to go. We'd be starting out on a hike and at the beginning of the trail I'd read the first few words of the sign, glance at the rest and figure "yeah I've got the general idea." Inevitably we'd be on the wrong trail which I'd find out when in a half a mile the trail ended at the edge of a cliff that looked down into a vast, deep canyon, and I'd be surprised like, "hey, wait a minute! This was supposed to be a four-mile hike." I'd look at My Man, who'd be smiling and reply, "did you read the sign?" Believe it or not this happened multiple times. In some instances I'd be navigating while he'd be driving, but really I'd be singing along to one of my crazy-amazing Spotify playlists like the karaoke star I am (in my head) and only partially look at where we were going and totally miss turn-offs because my strategy was just "oh we drive for a while and when we see Hwy 72 we turn right." Only to be right in the middle of belting out "just like a prayer, your words can't take me there - oh shit! that was Hwy 72 I think..." I need to slow down. Read signs in their entirety. Then re-read them. Then probably read them one more time just to be safe. I need to fully understand where we are going, make that my priority when navigating is my job, and focus on that rather than my audition for America's Next Karaoke Star. Slow down. Focus on the job at hand. I don't want to lose to the old couple when it's our turn on "The Amazing Race."

I must have a hole in my lip. I spill water on myself when I drink. I've noticed that I do this a lot, but it's usually when I'm by myself, or in front of LittleVirgo, who doesn't say anything because she thinks it's normal. She's 4. I never really stopped to think why I do it. Problem #1, obviously. I becamse quite aware of it when My Man would look at me with amused confusion while the water I would be gulping out of a glass went both in my mouth and down the side of my mouth onto my shirt. The problem is that I never stop to just drink a glass of water. While I'm hurrying to take a drink I'm already onto the next thing, whether it's saying something, thinking, putting my coat on, whatever. It's sloppy for a 37 year old. I need to be able to drink water. Without spilling it.

Let go and let laundry happen. Because we found ourselves on the road for a while, we had to stop a few times to do laundry at laudromats. The first time this happened I watched anxiously wringing my hands as My Man threw every single piece of our laundry together into the washer. Jeans + my underwear + his underwear + white shirts + colored clothes. Lights and darks mingled together with jeans and my delicates. I stood watching, nodding my head, trying to get on-board with what was happening. Deep breaths in and out. My hand-washed items would be okay. They'd made it through rough situations before. I'd probably accidentally tossed them in with regular wash items at some point, hadn't I? This totally made sense, washing everything together. We didn't have money or time to waste sorting into small loads here in the laundromat. My Man noticed the worried look on my face as I watched the water drench our clothes before they were tossed about vigorously.
Him: "Everything ok?" Me: "Yeah. Oh Yeah." Exhale. "It's fine. Yeah. Everything's cool." It had to be. We were on the road. Why did I have delicates with me anyway? What about this road trip said "bring delicates?" Why was I being so fussy? This isn't how a gypsy road warrior lives. I need sturdy, yet seductive underthings. Note to self: start an underwear line of sturdy, yet seductive underthings. So there in the laundry room, probably somewhere in Utah, I let my sexy underwear life get tumbled in with my camping on-the-road life and My Man's synthetic fibered, tough-wearing, sensible life.

Then there was The Towel Incident. We'd been at camgrounds that didn't have showers or in the middle of the Oregon desert, necessitating us to use our solar shower, for about a week when we hit Crater Lake. We'd heard from some Oregonians, who were at the Oregon desert hot springs we visited, that showers at campgrounds were free in Oregon. What? WHAT?!?!! This was the greatest news I'd heard since I don't know when, which isn't to say I didn't enjoy the solar showers. I did. I totally really did. It was all part of the experience – getting naked in the moonlight and shivering under warm water trickling from the sprayer. But dammit if I wasn't excited to take the longest, hottest shower I'd taken in a while. We'd taken some campground showers on the road trip, but they were a bit spendy; $5 for 3 minutes, or a dollar a minute. You can imagine my excitement for a free shower. Just imagine your own excitement if you were on roadtrip week three and had spent the previous week speed showering under a solar shower. You'd be psyched. So when we got to Crater Lake and found our camground I wasted no time in finding the free, hot showers. I didn't care if they looked like prison showers, which they kind of did. I strapped on my shower sandals and took a hot shower like I was in the Four Seasons spa. I was in there all by myself, as these were fully enclosed shower rooms; a luxury in camp showers which are usually just stalls. I leisurely washed my hair, let conditioner sit in for the instructed 5 minutes, shaved my legs. It was bliss. I took my time drying off and emerged from the shower room squeaky clean, my hair in a towel turban, and made a right into the restroom to continue my post-shower grooming. As I was slathering my face with lotion and glowing in post-shower splendor My Man walked into the bathroom. Hmm. That's weird. Why is he in the Ladies Restroom? 
Him: "Hi. Have a good shower?" Sweet smile plastered across his face.
Me: "YES!!! It was glorious and hot."
He nodded his head and shifted his jaw.
Him: "Good. Good. Ok. You're in the Men's Room."  
Me: "WHAT? Ohmygod!"  
Him: "And that's the dirty car towel on your head."
Me: "WHATTHEFUUUUCK?!?"

I crumbled. I was a broken woman. I ripped the towel off my head and threw it at him, as if it were his fault. "Fuuuuuuuuck. God dammit. Whatthefuck!?!?!?!" I'd somehow mistaken the towel we used to wipe down coolers, the front windshield, picnic tables, anything dirty really, with my bath towel and used it all over my gleamingly clean body and wrapped it around my freshly washed hair. The Four Seasons would have never made such a fatal error. I stormed out of the bathroom and proceeded to pout for the next 24 hours while he conveniently "remembered" all the things he'd personally used the towel for - as a snot rag, wiping down his undercarriage after a sweaty hike, cleaning between his toes, sometimes riding it like a pony while naked because he liked how it felt. It wasn't until he admitted using the towel to wipe the afterbirth off a litter of baby opposums he helped deliver that I laughed and got over it and realized I was making a big deal out of nothing. And from this, which shall forevermore be known as The Towel Incident, I learned to laugh at myself. It's much more fun than getting mad at myself. 

I'm less maintenance than I thought. I'm not bragging here. This was quite a revelation. I've never been what I consider "high maintenance," but I didn't realize I could just roll with it on a barebones level. I don't need much, and this was an amazing personal revelation for someone who has 10 tubes of chapstick and at least 15 lipglosses that are basically all the same color. At one point on the trip when we were in Telluride I saw a homeless man heating a cup o' noodles with a blowdryer in the town park and thought, "Right on. This guy's got the right idea. You just work with what you've got." Now, I'm not going hobo, but you know what I mean. I like to have stuff. I like clothes. I was a clothes and shoe whore with the best of them. I like to get fancy. I just realized on this trip, though, that I can really be low maintenance. I don't have to "do" my hair every day. I can shower or wet it down throw it in some braids or a bun and be fine. And for that matter, I don't have to shower every day, and if I do it can be in the moolight under a fir tree, standing on a piece of plastic, splashing water on myself from the solar shower. I can survive with just a few pair of clothes and when those clothes get dirty I can let them all get washed together. I don't need things. I brought jewelry and a handbag with me, you know, just in case we hit a social scene somewhere and I needed to enlist my fashionable self, which of course never happened. I didn't even look for that situation in fact. I just don't need stuff, and can be comfortable and happy with very little. I can be as much or as little maintenance as I want to be. I think I might actually be able to be a gypsy.

But really, let's get serious. What did I really learn? What did all these stories teach me? What was the big, introspective, life-changing, I need to write this down for posterity, thing that I learned? Well..drumroll... It's That I Can Do It. That I kind-of am a warrior, actually. I didn't have a spear, nor did I kill anything on this road trip, but in a sense, I found that daring spirit inside me that is chanting "Do it. Do it. Do it." Whatever it is, I can do it. Life may toss shit at me, almost literally sometimes, but I can do it. Challenges, good days, bad days, a dark night full of blood-thristy animals, crazy ideas, whims, anything. I Can Do It. 30 Days as a road warrior - I Can Do It. 30 days with the same person 24/7. I Can Do It. Live in a one-room cabin in a forest on a small PNW island - I Can Do It. Write a novel - I Can Do It. Before this 30-day adventure, I might not have been so sure of myself. I might have said, Um Yeah, there's a possibility I can probably do it. Now, I welcome whatever life throws at me. Whatever the opportunity. Whatever the challenge. Whatever the test. Whatever the adventure.

I CAN DO 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.

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.

 

 

 

 

Heroin vs Heroine

Heroin: An addictive drug that (I've heard, I've never done any intravenous drugs) is heaven to experience, and awful to quit. The drug of all drugs. The tip top of being tripped out.

 

Heroine: a woman of distinguished courage or ability, admired for her brave deeds. See: Joan of Arc, Queen Elizabeth, Eleanor Roosevelt, Eleanor of Acquataine, Hillary Clinton

 

I've been called both recently. And frankly, both are quite flattering. It makes a lady feel sexy to be so irrisitable that I'm someone's drug of choice - that I make someone feel as high as an addictive substance. It's an honor to be someone's heroine, woman of distinction, role model. But, if I ackowledge that I'm heroin and let it flatter me then I'm not being a heroine, am I? These two words, pronounced the same, but one letter and miles apart in meaning, have led me to a place of pause. Because as a single woman with a young lady in tow, I can't be both. Can I?

When the term heroin was tossed my was, as in "you're my heroin," my feathers ruffled, my fur bristled, and "Oh. No. CrazyVirgo is NO ONE'S drug" was on the tip of my tongue, while my finger was ready to wag and snap. But, because of the yoga classes I've been doing, I took a moment to breathe and be in the moment. Why was this a bad thing? If I'm all about feeling good about myself, having self-confidence, then why do I care what I am to anyone else? What I am to you is your deal. What I am to myself is what matters. And all that delicious yoga shit.

But, I did what I always do, I think of LittleVirgo. Do I want to tell her one day that "mama was once called heroin by a man that she was kind of involved with, and that's ok, because....", knowing all the while that I'm also her heroine (or at least I strive to be). Then my mind flexed, and talked to my soul, and checked in with my heart, and we all decided, ya. F*ck it. Be yourself. Be proud. Be strong. IF that's heroin to someone, then I must be putting off a pretty strong vibe. And, by being myself, being strong and being proud, then I'm a heroine, to LittleVirgo, to myself, and hopefully to womankind. 

So, load me up in your syringe. Shoot me in your veins. Collapse and feel like you're floating. Enjoy it. I'll be watching from the battlefield where I stand proudly with my sword drawn, defending my honor.

Yoga Revisited - It's even better than I remember

When the clock struck midnight on January 1, 2013, I intended to have a Little Talk with myself. Alas, I think I was toasting cheap champagne, and dancing to a 80s cover band. But, shortly thereafter, maybe even on a bathroom break, I looked myself in the eye and said, CrazyVirgo, in 2013 you need to make some changes, do a lot of things differently, find balance, and shed your old skin.  So, in an effort to hit restart and center myself for 2013, I opted not for a cleanse or a new way of eating - because we all know I could never - and I headed for the obvious and joined a yoga studio in my south Boulder hood. It's a gorgeous space, with a huge West-facing window and a view of the Flatirons. There's an incredibly clean women's locker room with Pangea Organic Soap (which, in my opinion, makes any restroom, shared or not, sublime), instructors with naturally peaceful, rhythmic yoga voices, and cold-lavender-scented compresses passed out at the end of class for Shavansna (did I spell that correctly?). Truly, it's awesome.

I haven't done yoga since I was pregnant with BabyVirgo - basically two years ago. I prepared myself for the inflexibilty I would certainly encounter (without judgement  of course. This  IS yoga after all). I found that yoga, much like riding a bike, comes back to you in a snap. You never really forget warrior one, warrior two, triangle pose, oojaya (i'm sure that's not spelled correctly) breathing, cat-cow, wonderful words that roll off the tongue like Utanasna (spelling), and of course, the glorious release into shavasna. 

I bought a $10/10 days pass and have been three times already, including 6:30 a.m. yoga on a Tuesday - early morning exercise, which I NEVER do. Damnit, it felt good. Yoga feels good. Hey, does everyone know this? Yoga feels really freaking good. Breathing in and exhaling all the old ickiness, or the extra glass of wine you shouldn't have had, or an argument, or judgement, or pizza, and inhaling an entirely new breathe feels transformative. Man oh man. Why hadn't I really indulged in yoga before? This shit is awesome.

After my third yoga class, I've realized, I'm oojaya breathing all over the place. Yoga is - gasp - extending in to my life at large. Oddly enough, inhale/exhale helps get through any situation. Traffic - inhale, exhale the shitty driver in front of you. Work - inhale, exhale the ridiculous feedback from a client (or boss, or co-worker, you get the point). Child - oh hell yes. Here's where it reeeeeallly helps. Right now, I'm potty training LittleVirgo, as well as wading my way through her developing personality (read: sassy independence). Since I've started yoga-ing again, I've inhale/exhaled my way through the following situations:

poop on my hand

bed time resistance: MOMMA! I sleep with you and Ozi (dog). Please?

a car that won't start

an overturned plate of food with ketchup on a teak-wood table

an constantly uncertain job situation

CrazyVirgo 2012 would have freaked out in every one of these situation, at least a little, over-dramatized them, for sure, and never woul dhave kept her cool. CrazyVirgo2013, nay, 2.0, took a moment, look inward, inhaled, and exhaled the negative feelings that were bubbling up my throat like acid reflux. Funnily enough, each situation turned out ok. Some better than expected, even. So, I'm sticking with it. I'm hooked on yoga this time around. I'm buying the overpriced montly membership (why is yoga always more expensive than the gym???) and I'm gonna be a full-lotus doing, oojaya breathing, open-hipped yogi.

Damnit Yoga. You're good.