Opening the Door

Last fruit and flower gathering before going.

Today we leave the California farm. Next up: Nearly two months in the Pacific Northwest.

A friend of mine asked if I ever feel sad about leaving a place I have fallen in love with.

It can be bittersweet. I think about leaving our routine of berry picking and animal feeding and  pie baking. I think about saying goodbye to the beauty of the redwood trees and local friends and comfy couch where I read each morning.

And I realize in two short weeks this farm morphed from foreign to familiar. From unknown to home.

That's been the case with most every place we've stayed in the past year.

So when it comes time to go, I acknowledge the impulse to cling. Then I ease myself into letting go, softly, through appreciation of everything we experienced. Then I turn my attention to curiosity and excitement about what lies ahead.

What's ahead?

Always a new adventure. Always new doors opening. Because change is the nature of life.

If I'd known this when my marriage of fifteen years ended, I could have saved myself a lot of grief. Can you imagine letting go of a person you love? Accepting that the person wants to move on? Accepting that we own no person, no place, no object? Accepting change--meaning the nature of life?

Can you imagine fear morphing into excitement?

Yet the clinging and rending and devastation taught me so much. Nothing is wasted.

This nomadic life teaches me more and more every day about letting go. About what serves me better: viewing something as an ending, or a beginning. Viewing an obstacle as a hardship or an adventure.

One of my greatest teachers is this regard was my mentor and other-mother, Gabriele. She viewed her dying experience as an adventure. Her heart was not filled with fear. It was filled with curiosity. Even joy.

I've always been a creature who liked change. But that was on my own terms. Now, I'm more radically embracing "letting go" and "letting be." Life feels more rich that way.

As Mark Nepo says, you have to put down what you carry to open the door.

What is it about July 23?

July 23, 2011...
...I caught the bouquet at my cousin's wedding.

July 23, 2012...
...We got married in Hawaii.

July 23, 2013...
...I woke up having a seizure in Cape Cod, the morning of our first-year anniversary. Brain surgery followed.

July 23, 2014...
Our two-year anniversary--and so much to be grateful for.

We decide to go on our favorite bike ride. Even though we are living a traveling life, we happen to be in our previous hometown of Santa Cruz on this day.

We ride up West Cliff Drive and on the bike path along Highway 1. Then through Wilder Ranch and over to a dirt path that follows the ocean. Farm land to our right. Infinity to our left.

Dave suddenly says, "Stop!"We scramble off our bikes. Hundreds of harbor seals lounge in the sun and play in the water.

We watch, entranced. Their silver bodies shimmer, as in celebration.

I'm suddenly so connected, so plugged in to life. As Shakespeare said, "One touch of nature makes the whole world kin."

 

Living Many Lives

"And now for something completely different."

That's what Dave says when we are plopped down into a new life. Since we are nomads, this happens often.

Right now we are playing farmers in the Santa Cruz mountains, housesitting for friends.

Dave gets up early each morning to feed, water and let out the chickens, ducks, turkeys and geese. He does the same at sundown, herding them into their enclosure.

He feeds the rabbits. He gathers eggs. He cuts flowers and fills the house with color and fragrance.

We pick berries, plums, nectarines, peaches. We pull greens from the garden.

Using this fresh food, I've cooked stir fry, berry cobbler, and crunchy kale. Dave uses the dinner leftovers for breakfast hash. I'm making smoothies every day. Coming up: Plum pie, and potato salad made with hard-boiled duck eggs.

It's very satisfying to recycle everything. When I cut off the tops of strawberries or root out a rotten nectarine, I set them aside for the animals. Eggshells, banana peels and peach pits go to the worms that make fortified dirt.

When we first got here, I felt a little overwhelmed. How were we going to pull this off? But a day or two later, I was into the swing.

Laundry on the line? I can do this!

I love watching Dave take to the next "completely different" thing. He doesn't complain or worry. He just goes for it. He becomes it.

Living so many different lives is challenging me to become more flexible and resourceful. I'm learning how to suspend judgement, and to trust in my creative powers.

 

Today, I root myself here. Yet change is a constant, waiting in the wings. "Something completely different" is always around the bend--not only for nomads, but for us all.

Eat A Peach

You know you're back in California when you wake up, pull a peach from a backyard tree, and eat it before jumping into the pool.

This paradise is the home of my longtime friends Janelle and Bobby. Right around the time Dave and I decided to give up our house and live a traveling life, Janelle and Bobby decided to focus on home. They wanted space to host friends, kids, and grandkids. They love to cook and garden and lovingly populate space with the perfect thrift-store find.

So they sold their Santa Cruz condo and bought this sweet Hollister house that rims a golf course--one of Bobby's favorite past-times. Talk about expert manifesters:  They knew they wanted a fireplace, and they ended up with three!

It's hard to imagine a better place to be right now as Dave and I navigate the medical derailment of our travel plans.  And yet a derailment doesn't mean an end to the journey; it's part of the journey, and we're already experiencing the incredible power of this detour. Much of the power is surfacing as serendipity, synchronicity, stars aligning--call it what you will.

Start with the fact that the other day our doctor friend Garry mentioned to us the name of a highly-regarded Stanford-affiliated Santa Cruz neurosurgeon, Dr. Ciara Harraher.  An hour later, Dave and I were sitting in the Santa Cruz office of my general practitioner. He was writing me a referral to a neuro guy when I said, "Do you know Dr. Ciara Harraher?"  And he said smooth as buttah, "I can write you a referral to her too, if you like."

Turns out my insurance covers her! Turns out she had an appointment available the very next day.  Turns out she specializes in the type of tumor I have and has performed many of these surgeries. Turns out she can do the surgery next Thursday, August 8.

I loved her immediately. Probably in her early 40s, she was kind and warm but no-nonsense. Wearing lime-green pants and a matching necklace, she vibed highly competent yet caring energy.  She reminded me of a number of my friends.  Her office is run by women, and in a subtle way it recalled being aboard the Piko Kai at this time last year--a woman-staffed dolphin boat in Hawaii. 

"Piko Kai" means "umbilical cord to the world." That's a comforting thought right now, thinking of how I'm being held in the warm womb of life blessed by the expertise of this surgeon, and the love of my family and friends.

Bobby and Janelle making peach and berry cobbler.

I was in awe of the vast world inside me when Dr. Harraher showed me images of my brain. It was easy to see the walnut-sized meningioma nestled into the left hemisphere in the "pre-motor region." She said that most of these types of tumors scoop right out, but that some are more adhered to the tissues.  So the surgery could take anywhere from 3 to 6 hours.  She discussed with me some possible complications but is pretty optimistic that things will go well since I'm in excellent health and this type of tumor is 95% likely to be benign.

Afterward, Dave drove us to the beach. We sat a few blocks from the house we'd left just a few months ago. Even though being with Janelle and Bobby is perfect right now, we knew that before and after my surgery, we'd need to be in Santa Cruz. We floated a few ideas, including finding a place to rent or staying in a hotel.

Santa Cruz

Then I picked up the phone and called my longtime friend Stacey who lives in Santa Cruz. We'd been playing phone tag all week; she was concerned and wanted to know what was going on. Just a few sentences into our conversation, she asked what she could do for us and said we could come stay. I was concerned because I didn't want to put more on Stacey's plate, as she's the mother of twin 11-year-old boys and she's preparing to teach fall classes.

But here go the stars aligning again! We'll get to spend three days with them. And then, right after my surgery, they happen to be going away on vacation. We'll be staying alone in their beautiful home, nestled in the redwoods. The perfect place for me to heal.

When we decided to live a house-free, traveling life, I hadn't thought about what might happen should one of us fall ill. After my seizure and brain tumor diagnosis last week, I've discovered the answer:  We have been enfolded in the loving arms of our friends.

How It Is

"When something ends, let it," says Steve Ross.  "It is nature of this world."

Sometimes it's easy to forget that change is constant.  But when you're on the edge of major change like we are, you can't forget it.

In 55 days our movers will haul away all of our stuff to long-term storage.  That night, we will hop on a plane for L.A.  Two days later, we're off to Australia--the starting point of our world-wide adventure.

I love Santa Cruz.  And knowing we are leaving has brought out an extra sweetness to this place.  I focus more intently on the waves at our beach.  I notice how the egrets at the shoreline hop around in a way that's both awkward and elegant.  I find myself gazing at the redwood walls of our home as though to memorize their texture.

As I sit here writing, I revel in the smell of roasting vegetables and steak that Dave is cooking for dinner, and I feel in my bones the pleasure of our evening rituals.  I've always loved our Tempurpedic mattress, but as I snuggle in each night now, I feel like I'm being tucked into a royal bed.

Soon, our life will radically change.  This moment feels like good practice for letting things end.  For not resisting the nature of life.

But of course it's not practice.  It's living.  No one really knows the future--be that next year, tomorrow, or the next minute.  So this hyper-awareness of impermanence is actually an acceptance of reality.  An acceptance that time is finite.  And in that acceptance, I feel more appreciation of this moment than ever.

A Year to Remember

Hawaiian sunset vows

This has been a watershed year, my 50th. I'm grateful I was able to spend hours with Mom--snuggling with her, listening to Hawaiian music, and telling her funny and loving stories--before she released into the great beyond. 

Looking very Brady:  Mom, sister Ann, me, sister Crystal, early 1970s.  (Mom made all these clothes.)

I'm grateful for the communal rituals that celebrate love and human connection: from Mom's Celebration of Life, to live concerts and birthday parties, to weddings. I was the bride at one wedding this year, and the officiant at another.

Dave with women of the wedding, an impromptu bachelor party (albeit a few hours late).

I'm grateful I married Dave, a true partner in life. I'm grateful for all of our incredible adventures with family and friends throughout California, Mexico, and Hawaii. (A shout-out to my sisters: you're the best!)

Atop the Pyramid of the Sun in Mexico, with Paul.

It was one year ago this month that we moved to Santa Cruz. Living in this jewel of a place has added extra sparkle to our lives.

With friends a few blocks from our house.

I'm grateful for my colleagues and my students, from whom I learn so much. I'm grateful for art, literature, and writing. This year I joined a fantastic writing group that's supporting my efforts at my next book, and I started my "Ask Dr. Kate" column.
 

Skiing last week with good friends Matt, Stacey and twins Cole & Wyatt.  (Stacey and I have been buds for 20 years.)

My New Year's Resolution last year was to do something new every day. As of today I have fulfilled that resolution. In fact, it's become so second nature to say YES that most days I do a bunch of new things. 

Zip-lining on my 50th birthday extravaganza.

I feel like I'm finally getting the hang of embracing life. Here's to relishing the moment and being excited for the future. Happy Holidays, everyone!

The Alice in Wonderland Effect

Hanging out with 1,800 year old redwood trees is pretty amazing.  The world of Henry Cowell State Park feels both ancient and timeless.
 

Eagle Creek crossing

Before our hike, we had a pleasant conversation with a smiley ranger.  My guess is he loves his job.  Following his suggestion, we walked to the back of the main redwood grove and entered a trail at the General Fremont tree.  (That sucker is 277 feet tall!)  From there we hiked the River Trail and Big Rock Hole Trail.

Don't forget to stop and look up.

As we walked, I could feel us moving away from civilization and into the world of the Zayante Indians, the area's residents for thousands of years.  There is something fresh and honey-ish about redwood-infused air.

For a while I was invigorated.  Then I got a little drowsy, sort of like I was under some kind of cosmic spell.  I released to the floating, dreamy sensation.  Perhaps being dwarfed in stature and time created an Alice in Wonderland effect.

I'm glad that Henry Cowell's son gave away $14 million to enhance the "public good."  As a member of the public, I agree:  It's good.


If you go to Henry Cowell, you can enter through the main entrance, where parking is $10.  There you have easy access to the main redwood grove, the Roaring Camp train, and the visitor's center and gift shop where you can get a free map.  This map is much better than anything you can find online.

There are free entrances at several well-marked trail heads off Highway 9.  To explore another area of the park called Fall Creek Unit you can enter off Empire Road.  Hikes range from easy to challenging.  Trails are numerous and well-tended.

Evanescence

As friend and I walked through my neighborhood this morning she said, "This place is a wonderland."  Perfume of jasmine.  Patchwork of homes small and big.  Sea air and blue-green waves.  Beaches that stretch mile after mile.  Seaside amusement park that's colorful in the daylight, and animated with moving lights at night.  Yes, I've thought the same thing about Santa Cruz over and over:  Wonderland.  Wonderland.  Wonderland.

I guess that makes me Alice. There are times I feel a bit like I've eaten the magic mushroom just because of the beauty here--or maybe it's the infusion of negative ions. 

Santa Cruz shines even in a photo taken on an old iPhone.

Now that it's summer, there are a lot more people on the beaches than when we moved here in December.  It struck me today, as Dave and I played Frisbee in the sand, that all the people around us were happy.  Blissed-out people sunbathed, ate, drank, played guitars, and nursed babies on blankets.  Others snapped photos of their laughing friends.  Everyone screams joyfully when they are close to the water's edge and a wave sneaks up on them.  Even (or especially) the dogs seem high on something, walking with an extra bounce in their step.

We live two blocks from the beach, and sometimes at night I wake up to hear roaring, crashing waves--or barking sea lions.  Some mornings we walk a block to our local cafe, get a coffee and a cherry turnover, and walk to our favorite bench overlooking the water.  

My dad always loved the ocean.  We lived hours from it, but whenever we went to a beach together, he'd insist we watch the sunset.  He said there was something special about watching the sun sink into the water.  You could see time pass.  It was a reminder of the evanescence of life.  Dad wanted to suck every moment from every day.  Living in Santa Cruz makes me feel that way.

"Summer afternoon, summer afternoon; to me those have always been the two most beautiful words in the English language" Henry James

After a month of traveling, it's great to be back home.  I've been relishing writing, reading, planning my fall classes, finishing up wedding details, and just enjoying seeing the familiar with fresh eyes. Travel is a windshield wiper that cleans off the glass through which we view home.

We're getting married at this spot in Hawaii later this month.

Santa Cruz weather has been warm and sunny. We quickly morphed from post-travel-unpacking-and-regrouping to entertaining mode.  We've had overnight guests and an on-the fly dinner party, hung out with friends downtown for a movie and great meal, and saw a free concert at the Boardwalk.

I'm reading Just Kids by Patti Smith, who dated Alan Lanier of Blue Oyster Cult.

That concert was Blue Oyster Cult, a band I first saw 30 years ago.  My favorite lyrics from one of their hits are:  "Seasons don't fear the reaper.  Nor do the winds and the summer rain.  We can be like they are."

I felt the freedom of flowing with the seasons, with life, as I took a run today.  I:

trestle bridge

* ran from my house across the trestle bridge
* passed by the Boardwalk's creaking and plunging roller coaster
* passed dozens of beach volleyball players
* cruised up the hill by the Dream Inn

Laural and me in the back car.

* ran a few miles along West Cliff, a pedestrian-only walkway overlooking the ocean
* enjoyed Vs of pelicans swooping by

Dave likes to photograph the beasts

* mentally high-fived the surfer statue
* passed the lighthouse
* viewed kayakers, surfers, swimmers, dogs, frisbee-players

Main Beach opalescence

* turned around at Natural Bridges
* enjoyed the mostly downhill cruise back
* and stopped at Cowell's beach, where I took off my shoes to refresh my hot feet in the cool water and then
* walked down more than half a mile of beach back home.

On my barefoot walk up our street back to our pad, I ran into some former students who happened to be heading to the beach.  We hugged, laughed at the serendipity of our surprise rendezvous, and basked in the summery-ness of it all.

Summer is the long weekend.  June is Friday.  July is Saturday.  August is Sunday.

Happy Saturday!