THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 25, 2008
Saying Goodbye
Sutrayana: The place between dreaming and waking; a special meditative state wherein one can direct the dreams in a specific way.
Monday ----
My nose is burning and my eyes are bleary, not from driving, or coming down with a cold from the change of seasons, but because this is the last of my journal entries atSutrayana, my Pacific Northwest nest.
I look around wide-eyed from my perch on the window seat. My things are here. The girl that I was is here. I am here. I created this little hide-away home of my own. Why did I decide to sell? I’m sitting here crying at seven something in the morning. Monday morning in the falling of Fall, October’s ending at Sutrayana.
From the stereo, strains of hauntingly mournful music, movie themes from Out of Africa. The fireplace, glowing and warm, bites away at the morning chill. Outside the curtain-less windows a partial light, waiting for the sun to reach its fingers into this deep valley, tucked here between the arms of the Cascade Mountains. It is still, like freedom.
Things. Belongings. These things here are my own. Pieces of friends, fragments of memories, wildly colorful artwork from magical places. Remembered conversations with Gramma embodied in ceramic shakers like a litter of kittens, salt and pepper, nutmeg, cloves, allspice, cinnamon.
I light the tall aromatic candle, color of algae, on the little wooden table. Matchstick cracks, a sulpher smell as the flame leaps upon the candlewick. I once read that life is not the candle or the wick, but the burning. I pour blended black tea, faintly sweet with light cream and Mexican vanilla. A fanciful teacup. Will the teacup be in California? Willit travel with me? I’ve reserved a storage unit for the things I care about but can’t imagine in California. I can put off deciding their fate. And mine? I will try to find a way to keep their secrets with me.
Stained glass panel, stretched across the wide window, catches morning sunlight, filtered now through evergreen, a long-winged glider, sleek and white, soaring toward a red sun. In the cool morning, memories of long, hot days in the desert. Cravings. Passion. Groping for something more refreshing and flowing. Protected, impenetrable as the tall saguaro.
On a window ledge, river driftwood like a dormant snake, embedded grey stone an eye, hurtled into the soft wood by a violent snowmelt, all of it cast aside on a rocky shore.
A wall tapestry hangs at the top of the stairwell. “It’s Good to be Queen,” it reads. Here at Sutrayana I have reigned. Why would I give this up?
This week it is still my refuge. I will run with the dog and write while I am here. Eat and play here. Comfort wraps around me with the warmth of the fireplace.
Tuesday ----
Day Two of my last week here at Sutrayana. I haven’t started packing. Last night a feeling like confusion accompanied me as a lay on my bed in the loft, staring out at a black onyx sky overflowing with star milk. What to take, what to put into storage, what to give away or discard?
The temperature never hit fifty degrees yesterday. I’d forgotten how cold it can be up here. And it is cold again today, maybe thirty-five now. I’ll wait until the warmest time of day and then go for a run. High cirrus clouds this morning will limit the warmth when the sun finally stumbles up the river canyon.
In some ways the packing seems like it should be easy, but then I look around and I notice a photograph of a little black cat I had in 1979. When she disappeared I searched and searched, agonizing and heartbroken over her loss. It is not the only time that my sense of loss—my grief actually—over a pet seemed out of proportion. It is as though I had an obscure wound and the loss of any creature I loved plucked the scab right off that wound, triggering the pain all over again. I’d bleed until the thing would bind up, coagulate and cover over one more time.
Sun is peeking through the stand of trees and ragged clouds. Head to town and get some boxes, tape and packing paper. My breath extinguishes the silent candle, smoke and scent mixing, drifting toward the pine ceiling.
Wednesday ----
Another dim morning, but not quite so cold. I was planning to take a cup of tea and go back upstairs to bed, but my old dog, climbed up on the futon sofa after eating his breakfast and with the fireplace burning warm and orange, I lit the candle once again, releasing such sweet aroma as the flame devoured it, and joined the dog.
It’s 8:00 and I just sit, thinking about why this has been so good for me—my refueling station. Long stretch of day, sleepy, sometimes dreary, in which to just meander. Even my running is done slowly and without specific purpose. I start out, choose a direction and just go until my body turns around. Often I run farther than I think I will.
This time, this last time, I’m a little more drifty than usual and it is hard to start anything. It’s as if I can’t really pack until it is time to load it into the car and drive away. I am just pulling things off shelves or lifting them from ledges or walls and staring at them.
Thursday ----
Sometime in the night it started raining, as if the clouds could hold back no longer, and continued on till morning. This last day for packing and preparation is grey and drippy. The dog and I curl at opposite ends of the futon sofa, our easy chair gone to a new home. The sound of the rain on the metal roof is hypnotizing. Not like water dripping on tin, but like soft Velcro being pulled from a felt surface in little staccato movements. Insulation and wood transmuting common noise into syncopated percussion.
One thing about the rain: it warms things up. This morning, the porch thermometer reads forty already; yesterday maybe hit forty-five at the warmest part of the day. Still, it is a northwest drizzle, grey as ocean fog.
It’s dark and I have the candle burning in the window. How short it’s become. I’ve downed two cups of milky tea. The fire is cozy and warm. New Age tunes are playing on the stereo. The dog sleeps. His breathing is peaceful and deep, causing his whole body to rise and fall in rhythm to the music.
Friday ----
Our last night here. The dog and I will sleep in the bed tonight, with most of the possessions gone—except those that will travel with us to California. The dog is acting like a little lambkin and snuggling at my side. He lays his head on my stomach and looks up at me with the eyes of Wisdom. We are here, now. Nothing behind. Nothing ahead. It is good to be Queen. It is good to be a dog. Misty today, a veil over the valley, but not raining.
Last supper at Sutrayana. A couple of pieces of bread with tuna, grilled under the broiler. Enough to fill us both. It hit the spot. I’m nearly ready for bed now. The candle a mere puddle of melted wax, filling a would-be chalice.
Monday ----
My nose is burning and my eyes are bleary, not from driving, or coming down with a cold from the change of seasons, but because this is the last of my journal entries atSutrayana, my Pacific Northwest nest.
I look around wide-eyed from my perch on the window seat. My things are here. The girl that I was is here. I am here. I created this little hide-away home of my own. Why did I decide to sell? I’m sitting here crying at seven something in the morning. Monday morning in the falling of Fall, October’s ending at Sutrayana.
From the stereo, strains of hauntingly mournful music, movie themes from Out of Africa. The fireplace, glowing and warm, bites away at the morning chill. Outside the curtain-less windows a partial light, waiting for the sun to reach its fingers into this deep valley, tucked here between the arms of the Cascade Mountains. It is still, like freedom.
Things. Belongings. These things here are my own. Pieces of friends, fragments of memories, wildly colorful artwork from magical places. Remembered conversations with Gramma embodied in ceramic shakers like a litter of kittens, salt and pepper, nutmeg, cloves, allspice, cinnamon.
I light the tall aromatic candle, color of algae, on the little wooden table. Matchstick cracks, a sulpher smell as the flame leaps upon the candlewick. I once read that life is not the candle or the wick, but the burning. I pour blended black tea, faintly sweet with light cream and Mexican vanilla. A fanciful teacup. Will the teacup be in California? Willit travel with me? I’ve reserved a storage unit for the things I care about but can’t imagine in California. I can put off deciding their fate. And mine? I will try to find a way to keep their secrets with me.
Stained glass panel, stretched across the wide window, catches morning sunlight, filtered now through evergreen, a long-winged glider, sleek and white, soaring toward a red sun. In the cool morning, memories of long, hot days in the desert. Cravings. Passion. Groping for something more refreshing and flowing. Protected, impenetrable as the tall saguaro.
On a window ledge, river driftwood like a dormant snake, embedded grey stone an eye, hurtled into the soft wood by a violent snowmelt, all of it cast aside on a rocky shore.
A wall tapestry hangs at the top of the stairwell. “It’s Good to be Queen,” it reads. Here at Sutrayana I have reigned. Why would I give this up?
This week it is still my refuge. I will run with the dog and write while I am here. Eat and play here. Comfort wraps around me with the warmth of the fireplace.
Tuesday ----
Day Two of my last week here at Sutrayana. I haven’t started packing. Last night a feeling like confusion accompanied me as a lay on my bed in the loft, staring out at a black onyx sky overflowing with star milk. What to take, what to put into storage, what to give away or discard?
The temperature never hit fifty degrees yesterday. I’d forgotten how cold it can be up here. And it is cold again today, maybe thirty-five now. I’ll wait until the warmest time of day and then go for a run. High cirrus clouds this morning will limit the warmth when the sun finally stumbles up the river canyon.
In some ways the packing seems like it should be easy, but then I look around and I notice a photograph of a little black cat I had in 1979. When she disappeared I searched and searched, agonizing and heartbroken over her loss. It is not the only time that my sense of loss—my grief actually—over a pet seemed out of proportion. It is as though I had an obscure wound and the loss of any creature I loved plucked the scab right off that wound, triggering the pain all over again. I’d bleed until the thing would bind up, coagulate and cover over one more time.
Sun is peeking through the stand of trees and ragged clouds. Head to town and get some boxes, tape and packing paper. My breath extinguishes the silent candle, smoke and scent mixing, drifting toward the pine ceiling.
Wednesday ----
Another dim morning, but not quite so cold. I was planning to take a cup of tea and go back upstairs to bed, but my old dog, climbed up on the futon sofa after eating his breakfast and with the fireplace burning warm and orange, I lit the candle once again, releasing such sweet aroma as the flame devoured it, and joined the dog.
It’s 8:00 and I just sit, thinking about why this has been so good for me—my refueling station. Long stretch of day, sleepy, sometimes dreary, in which to just meander. Even my running is done slowly and without specific purpose. I start out, choose a direction and just go until my body turns around. Often I run farther than I think I will.
This time, this last time, I’m a little more drifty than usual and it is hard to start anything. It’s as if I can’t really pack until it is time to load it into the car and drive away. I am just pulling things off shelves or lifting them from ledges or walls and staring at them.
Thursday ----
Sometime in the night it started raining, as if the clouds could hold back no longer, and continued on till morning. This last day for packing and preparation is grey and drippy. The dog and I curl at opposite ends of the futon sofa, our easy chair gone to a new home. The sound of the rain on the metal roof is hypnotizing. Not like water dripping on tin, but like soft Velcro being pulled from a felt surface in little staccato movements. Insulation and wood transmuting common noise into syncopated percussion.
One thing about the rain: it warms things up. This morning, the porch thermometer reads forty already; yesterday maybe hit forty-five at the warmest part of the day. Still, it is a northwest drizzle, grey as ocean fog.
It’s dark and I have the candle burning in the window. How short it’s become. I’ve downed two cups of milky tea. The fire is cozy and warm. New Age tunes are playing on the stereo. The dog sleeps. His breathing is peaceful and deep, causing his whole body to rise and fall in rhythm to the music.
Friday ----
Our last night here. The dog and I will sleep in the bed tonight, with most of the possessions gone—except those that will travel with us to California. The dog is acting like a little lambkin and snuggling at my side. He lays his head on my stomach and looks up at me with the eyes of Wisdom. We are here, now. Nothing behind. Nothing ahead. It is good to be Queen. It is good to be a dog. Misty today, a veil over the valley, but not raining.
Last supper at Sutrayana. A couple of pieces of bread with tuna, grilled under the broiler. Enough to fill us both. It hit the spot. I’m nearly ready for bed now. The candle a mere puddle of melted wax, filling a would-be chalice.
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