Somewhere in the deeper recesses of my mind I must really want to put forth a creative literary masterpiece. I say that “I must” because why else on God’s green earth (or brown if you’re minding the drought news), would I mention in my “Final, Final” list of adventures for this year that I would write a book?  No, seriously, why?

Let’s jump back a minute. I have written a book. A small little piece of historical truth one might use if one was, say, a tourist at Pearl Harbor and the surrounding historical sites.  I wrote a guide. It was itty-bitty, and it was all consuming and cost me hours of headache and pain – and I wasn’t even in love with it. That all said, it was a major accomplishment and taught me more than I could possibly have given to the reading public. It is still hard to imagine why I thought that in just one short year I could jump back in to the bewildered writers pool and write a book, again?

About what, I ask you? What book shall I write?  – Because your guess is as good as mine.

Now, a whole lot of this blog’s intention is to stretch me out of my comfort zones. One of the zone boundaries is the place where I throw myself at only those projects that equal almost no chance of rejection.  I have friends, dear friends who tell me I am “so brave,” “so multi-talented.” These same pals applaud me and coax my ego and make me feel for just a moment that maybe my life isn’t all that boring after all, and that I’m not totally crazy.  I also have a laundry list of encounters with people who maybe aren’t my closest friends who say things to me more in the vein of “my, don’t you jump around jobs,” or “you’ve sure worn a lot of hats.” While the later two statements don’t sound exactly malicious, they are always delivered with that edge of disgust that comes from someone encountering a person or culture they just can’t see themselves as.  I scare them.  I scare them because my bouncing about, throwing myself at new projects looks schizophrenic (and sometimes it is), and because I’ve not really committed to one thing and one thing only and mastered it, like tax accounting or medical filing. I’m creative I guess, and I’m not quite comfortable with that enough to feel secure, and they’re not comfortable with it at all.  Maybe, just maybe, they (those doubters) worry that their strict view on success in life has them missing out on a bit of creativity? Probably though, they look at me and see a chaos that reflects something that scares them in their own life.  I totally sympathize with that.

 Never-the-less, here is this self challenge of writing a book – a book of my own creation. Will it be fiction, will it be biography? Will it be a creative bust? And, most importantly, where do I begin?

A week without

This post should be backdated, along with the next few. My computer died.

 Actually if truth be told, my computer was hijacked by my surprise visiting, social cue missing, computer crazed, father.  Somewhere in his first day here, about the time I really needed to get rolling on a project, my ever well-meaning husband asked for a little help from the dad, working on my lap-top’s speed. Cut to 7 days later and I was the silent partner in a crazy film. I was the one in the background, maybe outside looking in through double-thick windows, screaming and pounding with no answer from the men doing surgery on my dear little grey friend.  I was not in control. My computer was held without ransom.

 A week past and the father has launched on some hair-brained adventure he’s attempting at age 72 (which involves biking 76 miles at 12,000 feet elevation).  Though I’m grateful he and my husband wanted to “support” me, it’s hard after having lost my computer – my life – for a week, not to feel like the victim of their game.  This computer repair became more about a play of egos, than about helping me. That’s how I feel anyway.

 Should I complain, which I certainly did, the only result would be a stubborn look of distaste from my better half, and a flurry of drama from my father at my thinking writing was more important than a properly high-functioning computer system (remember social-cues = Missing).

 Never mind, this is all first world issue. My house is now empty, children at school, granddad biking the mountains, and me chipping away at improving me on my new island.

 Remember that list? It’s about adventure and it’s high time we had some.  I feel the edges of a regular week routine sneaking in, which it should, but I need to focus on how it lands on my day.

 This weekend I will be taking a class on Rowing. Two days spent on the Puget Sound leaning the ins-and-outs of paddling a team boat.  I’m aware this is something that has called me for years, and am equally scared to death of what I will be in this team’s presence.  After three years of feeling like the “large white lady” in Hawaii, I feel in my gut this dread about showing up in a swimsuit and pretending to be athletic.

 Body shame. I am afraid of exposing myself. I am afraid of appearing “big”, even if, and it’s really true – I am big.  I have never been petite, and yet I panic at the thought of being placed with my like-sized big girls in whatever part of a boat crew accommodates those of us in the Viking stature category.

Here’s to a weekend of doing something that scares the shit out of me.

For just over three months (three months and ten days to be exact), my children have been out of school.  Our life on the move at the whim of the US government has lead, in this case, to one long and crazy summer.  Our school in Hawaii  ended their year in May (and they began their new year in July), and our new home state of Washington begins their new year September 2nd.  This has meant so many things, some of them wonderful and some of them downright exhausting.

On the plus side, I organized a nearly month long adventure across the Southwestern United States, dragging us hither and yon in search of adventure, history and learning.  In addition, we have had more and more adventures to Canada and Oregon while whittling away the summer. Also, we have gotten very good at sleeping in, which has been blissful on some days when I want to wake early, before the din, and write or drink coffee, or watch Netflix. Hurray!

 But, it must be said, that there were/are days (many if I’m honest), where I mostly wanted to pull my hair out and down a bottle of wine. Maybe the wine first, and then less hair?  I am their only playmate.

 At 12 and 6 years old, on more than most of the days we’ve been together this last three months, I have been their engaging playmate, soul-listener, friend and confidant.  It is a time I am sure to look back on and mourn the loss of, but I would be a total fake if I didn’t admit that I mostly just lost my mind this summer. Every summer.

 It’s hard.

 It’s hard being the best friend.

 Some days at about 3 pm, I find myself sitting on the front porch wondering which ferry my husband will be home on. Before having our rental home on an island in the Puget Sound, which has only been a month, I would be in traffic with the kids, or toiling about a museum, or on a hike. Always engaging them in learning, or a video ( let’s be real), or trying to imagine my life as a grown-up without two smaller people to keep entertained.  It is a difficult bridge, my life to theirs. Some days I can’t imagine that they would be shipped off to day-care, or all day summer camp from 6a.m. to 6 p.m., and then some days I think, “What the hell am I doing?”  I have, maybe by default or maybe out of subliminal choice, been a stay-at-home mom.Tomorrow that all changes.

 Tomorrow they both start school again.

 And now the question: What will I do?

I didn’t sleep last night. I can’t say for sure what happened, but I sat up, eyes a blaze until at least 3:45 in the morning. Thank god it’s summer, so the kids slept in a little, but today will no doubt be one long hazy disaster.

I have purchased one way tickets to London, no return – yet – and I am a complete disaster. What if we don’t see everything we want to? What if we were supposed to go to Germany and Austria, not London and France?

How will we get to France?

What if we don’t learn enough French?

What if we’re disasteriously lonely on Christmas day?

What if…?

 This has been a dream, literally, and now I literally can’t even dream, I can only sit here awake and freak out. This is such a bad omen for my pending adventures. This is not adventurous of me at all.

 More to come, I’m sure.

I guess I have to start somewhere, and hiking is going to be it. I have assigned myself 12 new-to-me hikes in this year’s adventures. The point here, above all else is to make sure I don’t stay locked away in my house.  Beyond that, it seems, hiking 12 new hikes won’t be possible on our tiny island – not challenging ones anyway – and so I will have to branch out.  I wondered whether I would find one far away for my first go, but as it turns out, I took the easy route and went to the closest trail – one of only maybe two near my home. This is dangerous behavior, as I am really cutting out my fallbacks should a year go by and I still need a couple hikes. Oh well, it is done. Without further adieu, Gazzam Lake Trail.

 We set out, sandwiches in bag for a Sunday afternoon quickie.  Gazzam Lake trail stretches from the forest of inner Bainbridge Island, to the channel of Puget Sound stretching between our island, and the more westerly peninsula of Bremerton and Silverdale, Washington. At around 2.5 miles each way, it winds by a small lake covered edge to edge in lily pads and cattail. The lake itself was rather unremarkable, so much so I forgot to take a picture. I did capture some graffiti on the water tower early in the hike, and that should be noted, as this island is remarkably white-bread so far, and decidedly missing some naughty undertones. I’ll take rogue art where I can get it.

 Just a short distance past the lake, still in imperial wooded forest, the sky and sea peek through the trees and you begin a rather steep half-mile downhill to the rocky shores. The smell is that of any good northwest coastal shoreline – pungent. Fish bodies, mud, brine and sea air all swirl into something that I can only describe as home.  The cooler outside air makes this combination of seaside smell somewhat different than the ripe ocean smells of Hawaii. There, the sun bakes the ripe out of the shore long before it can stew. Here, brine is an actual flavor in your day if you dwell near the shore. I never thought I would miss this particular odor, but on first sniff here in the greater Seattle area, I can honestly say I am in love. Brine and seagulls – who knew they could be missed?

Though our hike was less then challenging, it did render some insane shell finds and a solid five plus miles on the pedometer. I will certainly consider this for weekly exercise and a solid place to hike visiting friends…