Hi friends.
As the fog parted over Oregon Route 58 and beams of early morning light illuminated clumps of moss hanging from trees along the highway, a heaviness in my chest lifted. I was driving a moving truck packed with our life’s belongings while Steve followed behind in our van. We left our motel just after 6 a.m. on Sunday, eager to arrive at our new home in Portland by midday. Just 4.5 hours to go. Would the van make it? Only a week earlier, our mechanic told us it wouldn’t because its engine was tired, sputtering, dying. A metaphor for how we felt the last two years in Flagstaff. But winding north through our new state, we had almost escaped what we’ve dubbed “the death time” for how it challenged us. Finally within a towing distance acceptable with a AAA membership, I could relax. My walkie talkie crackled as Steve shared his awe and wonder at the scenery. “We live here now,” he breathed over the channel.
My excuse for being a few weeks late with this journal entry is that I’ve spent the first part of the month packing up and moving out of the desert. Steve wrapped up his MFA, he found a new job, we signed a lease, I put my annual summer OOO message up, and here we are in a new city and state. This is a huge time of change for us. And as excited as I feel, I’m finding myself overwhelmed and overstimulated each day. With new sights, new smells, new sounds. With new locales, new neighbors, new walking and running routes. Supple flowers in pinks, whites, and yellows bloom around us. Cyclists whiz past our house and people walk their dogs. Strips of grass separate the sidewalk from the street. Children rush to school and folks trek to the grocery store between rains. Inside our apartment, I arrange furniture and unpack box after box. I keep reminding myself that my month off is for personal writing, so finally, I’m sitting at my desk with enough thoughts flowing that I can string them together.
I also need the reminder to be gentle and compassionate with myself. Just because I’m not putting words to paper every waking moment doesn’t mean I’m not using my vacation wisely. In my free time, I’m trying to be more intuitive about my energy. When I’m buzzing and coursing, sitting down at my desk doesn’t feel like the best use of time. Maybe it’s better to write when my energy has slowed, like today. I love how Nicole Gulotta puts self care in Wild Words: “I’ve avoided writing this chapter because I haven’t wanted to believe that taking care of myself directly affects my creative life. I haven’t wanted to consciously accept doing less or that certain writing projects may take twice as long as they used to.” She adds later, “To recalibrate myself I must do the smallest acts of self care imaginable.” For me, those small acts of self care include unpacking boxes. Organizing our book collection. Venturing to the ice cream shop around the corner that’s been starred on my map for months. Drinking water. Napping when the rain rolls in. In my body, these simple tasks feel just as necessary as writing my manifesto. I can’t do the latter without the former.
With love,
Amelia
P.S. If you have any favorite stops in Portland, drop me a note 🙃
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Monthly Favorites
Reading: Rereading The Anthropology of Turquoise by Ellen Meloy
Exploring: I’m planning a bike ride to local fabric stores Bolt and Modern Domestic
Listening: This Outside podcast about getting naked outdoors
Cooking: Summery, lemony orzo with asparagus and bread crumbs
Writing: A flash essay about healing road anxiety by driving an ATV, an interview with Dune actor David Dastmalchian, and a guide for planning the perfect road trip
Buying: Secondhand goodies from a favorite vintage curator, Hazelfern Goods
Making: Not much as I get my sewing corner set up again, but I did finish the Bisque Trousers before packing everything away