We have taken exactly eight photos since we arrived back in the US, and they all look like this:
Tyler's mother has decorated their house in Rancho Bernardo to be a calm, peaceful, clean space: white, white, little black, more white. Her kitties match the house perfectly. These three brothers are new to Tyler and I; they were kittens while we were wintering in Svalbard. We have been here since Thanksgiving, and have spent the holidays in the traditional American style: turkey, shopping, Christmas trees, wrapping paper, way too many sweets, football and commercials. There have been a lot more palm trees around me than in any other December of my life, but we did take a trip to the mountains last weekend for a tiny dose of snow. Snow! Last May, I wasn't sure if I would ever miss it; I was so sick of shivering and runny noses and wet socks. The fact that it is December 31 and I am now 31 brings me to consider the year. It has been, frankly, huge. Here, look at this:
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| Northern lights and the moon. |
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| My 30th-birthday gibassier, or how I spent December 25, 2013. |
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| Snow and ice over the river in Oslo. |
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| Southern Oman. |
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| Mosque, Sharjah |
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| Barentsburg: "Welcome to Russia," popped up on Dagmar's phone when we sat down for our lunch break. |
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| Svalbard daytime. |
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| Danish fields. |
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| German fields. |
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| Seychellois hibiscus. |
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| Tropical sunset and windswept hair. |
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| Rome, overcome with clouds and tourists. |
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| Texture from the door of La Sagrada Familia, Barcelona. |
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| Tiles at Parque Guëll. |
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| Wild irises in los Pirineos. |
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| Wild thistles in los Pirineos. |
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Dahlias in Gabe's parents' garden where I house-sat for all of August.
PS: I am the world's best house-sitter, hire me to come watch your house in your exotic and interesting neighborhood. |
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| Oh that Oregon coast... |
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| Waterbugs at the Cute Patrol Camping Trip. |
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| The Alhambra, Granada, Spain. |
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| Neighborhood gatos, Granada, Spain. |
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| Silver chicken from the crazy procession we saw in Granada for the lady of a million sorrows or something like that. |
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| Lisboa! |
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| Oh, crumbling, lovely old Lisbon... |
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| Weird old Spanish mountain town with the dogs that fought in the street. |
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| Pigeon at the Alhambra. |
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| Chefchaouen blue. |
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| Morroccan Bee. |
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| Sunset over Meknes. |
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| A million storks over Meknes. |
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| Ait Benhaddou. |
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| Morroccan coastline north of Sidi Ifni. |
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| This is not a muppet, this is a bald ibis, in nature. |
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| See? This is where he lives, with all his friends, along the edge of the old Paris-Dakhar Rally Road. |
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| The harbor at Essaouira. |
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| Brighton beach stones. |
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| The bright boardwalk at Brighton. |
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| Sunny old England. |
Is it any wonder that my heart hurts a little trying to assimilate all the wonderful things that have happened to me this year? I'm really not sure what to say about it. Where to begin, first of all, but also: seriously,
what happened? There is probably something inherently unhealthful about marathon travel. If I look back at my notes from the final quarter of the year, they are full of references to my tattered flag of stamina. Tyler and I got sick in Spain in September, from a mistake involving water from a fountain that was not potable. Two weeks! It was awful. I have lost things-- many things, including some valuable
things on the edge of the Sahara, but none more valuable than my patience, which is still a bit thin from so many hours trying to yoga-zen my way through airport lines and city streets and nights asleep on lumpy or hard or cold or damp beds. I have had knots in my neck for going on six months. Is it possible they are permanent? Should I go see a chiropractor?
But here is the thing about it: I have been "home" for, what, 6 weeks? It seems almost impossible, but I am pretty sure that the slight flutter of anxiety I feel upon waking is basically itchy feet. It was so fun to go to the mountains last weekend! To sleep in a new place, wake up to a morning that looked new, watch for birds I had never seen before, leave behind the list of things I "had to do" and focus on being somewhere for a while-- days at a time, only needing to be somewhere and live it.
If you think I am anything but grateful for the year this world has granted me, you're crazy. I am so gol-dang lucky, it just isn't funny.
So what to hope for in 2015, and what to resolve to? "Like a piece of ice on a hot stove the poem must ride on its own melting," wrote Robert Frost in
The Figure A Poem Makes. Sometimes I feel like I stepped up onto a big piece of ice, and now I just want to be able to ride it along on its own melting for as long as it will sustain me. Hoping there's another ice flow to hop to when this one becomes more puddle than piece. I think this is also what surfers do when they are riding the swell. As long as I can keep renewing my patience and energy, then I can hope to hang on.
Last year, by the way, I resolved to quit biting my nails, and totally kept my resolution, so here's to that!
