When I think about what I want to do with my life, "travel" is often my answer. You know, in that scenario where I win the lottery, or a genie grants me three wishes, or I make it big some how (despite that fact that I have no ambition to make it big.)
But I do have the ambition to travel the world and play in big cities and rural villages and experience as much of the world as I possible can in my finite existence in it.
So here I am, on the other side of a trip. The return home. The comfort of the sweet, cool, fresh air in Seattle. Knowing I have everything in my bathroom I could ever need. Knowing I can choose from my entire wardrobe each morning. And, probably most of all, knowing that I don't need to make the most of every moment in the same way you do on a short travel trip. When we had just 4 nights in New York, it was a constant need to go, go, go. We left the hotel in the morning, and most days, didn't come back until we were in a drunken, hazy, achy-footed stupor and crashed in our heavenly bed.
One day, we decided to nap. Thank god. It was totally worth it. So we could, you know, just get more drunk that night and stay out later.
It was our first time to New York and oh-my-gaaaawd - I loved it. It was exhausting and overwhelming at times - but it affirmed to me that I'm a city girl. Totally. I loved the hustle and bustle. I loved the diversity. It wasn't quite as "magical" at times as I thought it might be. But it was better. It was gritty and raw and real. It reminded me why I love the city I live in.
When I leave Seattle, I always return with total confidence in my choice to stay here.
We came home just in time for one of Seattle's first "summer" weekends. And I've spent it mostly home alone. I went to my hot yoga class on Friday night. And skipped Bootie Prom and a horn band event in Ballard and a flute concert and the MOHAI pub crawl and SAM remix. Yep. That's right. I had that many "maybe I wanna do THIS!" activities on my calendar. And I stayed home. I drank a smoothie for dinner. I putzed around my small home. And I was asleep by midnight.
Today, I went to a cycling class at Rain. I loved it. I want to get back into the routine of going weekly. 10 am on a Saturday is perfect. It's a great way to sweat it all out and feel like I did something good for my body. Especially before I inevitably destroy it on Saturday night.
Except tonight, where I sit having a glass of non-oaky chardonnay (which is SO much better, IMHO) - and writing. Because I love to write. And I don't do it often enough. So here I am.
My cycling instructor this morning was cute. Sweet. Personable. I found myself relaxed in the workout - pushing myself, but not hating it by any means. She teaches weeknight classes too. Maybe here's the reason I try to go to weeknight cycling.
Then I went to my parents. A trip I always want to do desperately, while I simultaneously want to run for my life in the other direction. The picture:
My father has been in and out of hospice care for 3.5 years. Currently, he wears diapers. He can talk. He can walk (slowly) from one end of their house to the other. He can communicate basic needs. He can smile and laugh. He tells me he loves me with more ease than in my entire youth.
My mother has accumulated a sickening amount of stuff, and we're all afraid she's a hoarder. Yet, she's the light of my life and I call her close to daily. I love her so very much. She's been so strong and nurturing. She's beautiful. She has really annoying habits and tendencies - and sometimes I fear picking up some of them. Other aspects of her - I admire and inspire to acquire them.
My mom's youngest sister is out visiting and it was a lovely time chatting with her, over my snoozing father. We talked about her sons, my love life, nutrition and exercise. All great things. She talks a lot - incessantly - but in a way that lulls me and stimulates me. She talks so admiringly of her boys, her dog, her husband. Very honest and sweetly.
It was a better visit than I anticipated. And worth giving up outdoor time for. My Dad isn't in a place where he can go sit outside with us, soaking up the sun. I miss when he would just be quiet - but observant. Listening to his family converse and celebrate holidays and birthdays around him. I miss his storytelling - often missing the punchline, but laughing at is own, untold joke. I miss him.
Some of my family members are praying for how he dies. I don't pray in very traditional ways these days, but I don't know where the line between praying someone dies and praying how someone dies is.
I'm tired. This is it for now. Peach out.