so it begins. again.

Deep breaths, here we go.

I am doing it again: jumping off the deep end, back into the wild unknown.  

A plane ticket, vague notions, a semblance of plans. 

First stop: Portugal. 

Trust me when I tell you I have never planned things so loosely in my life. I know I am returning to farming in mere days, first landing in Lisbon and then heading south via a bus route I haven't fully sorted out yet. 

I've looked it up on a map. I know that permaculture is the planned emphasis. But as these things go, you never know.

And for now: utter chaos. 

 As I am known to do, I operate within bursts of productivity and panic. The rest of the time I spend in a state of complete procrastination. Historically this is my natural tendency and I am further powerless in the midst of a spring that's finally sprung. Seeming to opt always to spend these remaining hours in the park, in the grass, at restaurants, or in bars, I feel like I am getting nothing done. But I'm soaking up all the time I can get with my friends, while I can, and that's important too. This goodbye feels heavier than usual.

Meanwhile forever sorting through. Throwing it away, packing it away, giving it away.

Piles begetting more piles, more chaos, more of this suspended reality.

Two more days of cubicle work life, six more days of this Brooklyn existence. 

No job, no aparment, no idea.

And the list of things to do between now and takeoff: ENDLESS. 

one last time.

  

We headed out Sunday to Quogue, a long holiday weekend that I hadn't planned beyond a party I hosted in Brooklyn on Saturday night.

We brined the pork loin in the leftover bourbon-spiked cider. We roasted three colors of cauliflower and made a crumble for dessert. The dinner table was full, as were our wine glasses. Our friend Evan was telling us how he'd gone into the ocean one last time the day before, how he'd tempted fate. There had been a big storm so the waves were extremely powerful, moreso than expected, he said. He claimed he had maybe been in over his head, maybe shouldn't have done it.  But if the weather held for the following day, he'd do it again, we all should. I hadn't packed my bathing suit, but at the mention of the ocean I knew I could be easily be talked into it.

The next morning we rallied for the beach. We made it out early in spite of our late night and bleary-eyed state. It was mid October but the sun was shining bright and it felt surprisingly warm. Evan, already in his swim shorts, poured me coffee from his thermos into a mason jar - silly and charming details that made this already beautiful morning all the more magical. Andrew and I decided there was no way we could resist: we needed to get into the water. We quickly went back to the house to dig out leftover bathing suits for each of us, rushing back so that we could all jump in together. 

I hadn't realized there had been a storm that week until Evan mentioned it the night before, but it was obvious something strange had happened to the shore. The water came up further than I'd ever seen it and a sand bar had formed a few yards out. You would have to wade through waist deep water before reaching the sand and then you had to dig yourself back out. This sand was like nothing I had never encountered before, something similar to deep snow. It was hard to leverage your weight on, hard to pull yourself up through and over. And the water was freezing. As I crossed the sandbar my feet sank in deep. I didn't know whether to go slow or fast. Fast to keep from sinking, slow to keep from breaking or twisting an ankle or knee. We were all laughing and trying to move as quick as we were able to, bracing ourselves, trying to make it through.

 At first, the breaking waves seemed relatively calm. We screamed and recoiled against the frigid water but kept wading further in. Evan yelled that we had to dive in all the way at least once before returning to shore. No turning back, we said, we'd made it this far. At just that moment a large wave came towards us and we all dove in. I ended up farther out than everyone else, I turned towards Evan briefly before turning around again and seeing what was literally the biggest wave I had ever confronted in my life.

 I had no leverage. I was neither swimming nor standing such that I could gain the momentum I needed to dive beyond and through this wave. I had no time to panic or retreat, I could only just postition myself as best I could to dive through.

I remember Evan yelling "DIVE! YOU HAVE TO DIVE!" before was under water. Time seemed to pass in the way people often describe moments of emergency: in slow motion; seconds creeping by like minutes or hours . Like when you fast-forward through a film, frame by frame. Fuzzy, halted, fragmented. I dove through, I was horizontal. And then I was flipped, a somersault, a backbend. Strange visions of my body as a popsicle stick being flipped around unnaturally in the water. I was suddenly on my back. I felt the sand the the broken shells churning on underneath me. I thought to myself, "be loose, be easy" and did my best to surrender to the force of this way. I had time to feel fear and think "please don't break your neck, please don't break your neck", to think about that haunting New Yorker article from awhile back. I let the wave drag me. My arms and legs flailed and my body spun. At some point I was twisted around again completely, now on my stomach, and suddenly my feet and body and brain knew which what way was up, what to do. Suddenly I was out of the water, my head, my shoulders. Inexplicably I was standing, literally standing upright, completely bewildered. Evan immediately yelled out, cheering. He rushed towards me with a high five. Andrew high fived me too but I could detect something else in his eyes, maybe he could see something similar in mine. I said very little but tried to laugh, tried to appear confident. And then I hustled as quickly as possible out of the water. Back to the sand bar, awkwardly down, waist deep, up again. I had been dragged so far out, so far away from where I started. I coughed up salt water, it poured out my nostrils. My heart was beating so hard I could hear it above the sound of the crashing waves. I was so cold. I felt shaky and stiff. I secretly felt I had just cheated something, had just let myself come too close.

I toweled off, I sat down. My heart slowed, my breathing returned to normal. Everyone was back on shore, we were all fine, we were all invigorated. It was "just what we needed" it was "such a beautiful day". "Indian summer!", we said, "one last time".

I confessed to Andrew before we got back to the car that the entire ordeal had actually been terrifying for me, I still felt shaken. He said he knew. He said he looked for me, scanning the water, waiting for me to pop up. He had time to think I might not, had time to keep looking, was bracing himself for the possibility that he may need to find me. He said I shouldn't have worried, they would have grabbed me. But I know I would have been too far away. Had any law of physics played out against me, it would have made me impossible to find, impossible to grab.The cliche of forgetting the force of nature in the midst of an otherwise low risk moment or decision that changes things forever.

But that hadn't happened.

So I felt invigorated. I felt glad to have greeted the sea one last time. But I continue to remember it too as the time I felt lucky, the time it came too close. Mother Nature, the Atlantic Ocean, at her most forceful and furious. Reminding me of her strength, of the respect she demands. Reminding me that we're alive and lucky to be here. On this beautiful day. For one last time.

And as corny as it sounds, it also reminds me to let go. To surrender. To be loose, easy, to trust. To be grateful to emerge on the other side when you do, to have good friends to tell you they would have helped you if you needed them to.

So I'm thankful for that strange day, that strange morning in the sea. I'm sure it will be months before I meet her again, before I test the limitations of her strength and remind myself of the power and beauty of life that I just can't get enough of, even when it terrifies me. One last time.

change of scene

 

This summer became like no other.

los angeles

It had been so long. 

This crazy sunny city in which I had spent so many weeks and vacations (and even fantasized moving to once or twice) had been left fully neglected for over a decade.

More and more people I knew had moved out there or back there or within there. I'd promise over and over that I'd make my triumphant return one day. Years passed and it was not until this past month of June that I would finally make my way.

And it was a little bit better than I remembered.

All the ghosts I feared would haunt me had long since faded. I didn't need the old spots, the old crew, the old childish way. These friends were suddenly adults and living enviable lifestyles in perfect weather year round with beach and nature but a short walk or drive away.

So we hiked and we beached and we ate and we drank.

A memorable solstice celebrated with friends and strangers and grapefruit cocktails. The desertous rocks of Joshua Tree while wearing a vintage white dress. Dipping my feet in a cold waterfall while eating banana bread baked by someone I didn't expect to see. Silverlake, Highland Park, Pasadena. 

I ate too much gelato, too many tacos. Lounged on porches, by pools, in forests, in parks. 

Finally some lazy time with people it had been too long since I'd seen. 

What really happened was an actual vacation.

And next time it won't take me so long.

the path of the devil

Serendipity is always at play it seems. Just when I needed it most, an invitation to take on the infamous Devil's Path across the Catskill high peaks arrived in my email inbox. Widely regarded as the hardest hike in the Eastern Unites States, it was just the thing I felt I should do and needed to do. And with strangers, even better.
I had had my share of indulgence in the wake of the Inca Trail. I could have used more planning and buildup and training for this. But the moment was now and I went for it.

Roughly 25 miles of endless and ragged and oftentimes appropriately evil up down up down up down with nary a break in between. We did it over the course of two hot and sweaty days: six peaks spanning east to west; a total climb and ascent of 14,000 feet. Intermittent payoff most often in the form of vast viewpoints across a state we so regularly take for granted.

Quiet time to think and contemplate. Quiet time to not think and to not contemplate and to only be able to focus on one foot in front of the next, the next rock up or the next step down, the next crevasse, the next craggly creek bed, the next vertical ascent, the next water refill. 

And The Devil's Path proved truly devlish. As hard as hiking gets, we said over and over. And it felt like it never let up.
Within it, there are of course amazing pockets of scenery and terrain and even lean-to's and beautiful campgrounds that I was happy to have discovered but would never think to revisit again all in one go. You're seeing it, but you're not seeing it. You're just getting through it. But you're doing this because you're on a quest to prove something. And I suppose I did.
We managed to pull it off. A few missteps and oversights and we admittedly eliminated one summit of the very lookout I had coincidentally visited a month before, but the rest we did within the time allotted, with almost everyone in our group successfully completing it in one piece. In the middle of it, a camp out under the stars in a setting fit for a redneck jamboree. A fire, a "rock chicken", some new friends, some new points of view. 

Funny how a physical challenge can make a preexisting mental challenge seem so small. A reminder of your body's strength somehow translating into a representative manifestation of your mental wherewithal.

So. Mission: accomplished.

Bruised and battered but still standing. Not home free but on the home stretch.

Just like I have been. Just like I'll be again.

Once again, stronger than I think.