Every place I’ve ever lived in as an adult I took to instantly. Which is not to say that I didn’t look at a dozen places before each lease. But that feeling when you walk into a room and light up? That’s home. I know what home feels like. Ironic, coming from a military latchkey kid who never had a permanent address.
I have that here on the Farmcoast. I had it in Chicago. I have it every time in Paris. Not so much in Buenos Aires. Nor Seattle, Pisa, Barcelona or San Diego. (And I was born there.) Not in any other neighborhood in metro Boston besides where I live in Brookline. Nosara, nope. New York, hell no. Anse Marcel in Saint Martin… well, it’s French and tropical, what do you think?
Is it instinct or expectation? For instance, I came here feeling a little anxiety about moving out to the middle of nowhere in the dead of winter. Low expectations yielded a pleasant surprise.
Conversely, before my five-week trip to Argentina, I was giddy with the idea of living in the “Paris of the South,” but I actually found Buenos Aires leaving much to be desired. High expectations resulted in let down. Paris, France, however, breaks the mold. I loved it in 1994. I love it in 2015. My three-month sabbatical there in 2005 began as desperately romantic and ended heartbreakingly bittersweet. But it’s Paris. She in a category of of her own. Continue reading →
I absolutely love it out here. I’m considering staying another month longer if I can. The trouble is, as a single gal, the nightlife in Farmcoast consists of cotton tail deer crossings and wind chatting up evergreens by my windows. Lovely to see and hear but nothing to write WordPress about.
So. What’s a girl to do. I would trade me-time for us-time if I could find the right match, but it’s becoming an impossible chore. Where I live year round, though the square is teeming with restaurants and bars, though I’m at the rock gym surrounded by testosterone, though I’m traveling by subway and inadvertently shoved up against random strangers–it is just too damn hard to meet someone. Not to sound pessimistic, because I am the biggest believer in possibilities. But the dating game is a little like going to the mall with a fresh paycheck, finding the cutest this and that, standing in line for the dressing room, trying on/taking off, trying on/taking-off–and then walking out empty-handed because none of it fit. Maybe that’s a bad analogy because I hate shopping. Or maybe it’s the right one. Because I hate shopping. Continue reading →
From what little I’ve read, there are all kinds of postures for meditation. You can be sitting, standing, walking and lying down. But what about running? I think there’s a case for meditation with a kick… Who’s with me on this?
I ran five miles yesterday, focused on the sound of my breath. Just like you should in meditation. Inhale. Exhale. With a little extra huff thanks (or no thanks) to the cold I underestimated. Running in this Farmcoast, as they call it, there is way too much beauty to ignore. So my eyes may’ve wandered a bit. But overall, my attention stayed close, one foot, one breath–following the other.
If noticing what’s only in the now and what you’re feeling in the moment is meditative, I’d say running fits that mold. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. Sometimes in forced staccato. I could hear the wind and the whizz of the cars. And I was all too aware of the way my head felt without my running cap (having failed to judge what 36 degrees was like since the warmup not a day before.) I also tuned into that slight pain that tends to happen in my knees. Now that (ahem) age and years of wear and tear are taking their toll. I felt my right hamstring tighten like it does lately. And knew when to change my stride to shake it out. I was right there–in every step, as I heel-toed the asphalt, aligned in body, mind and spirit…
Kind of a lot of heft to put on a pair of sneakers, no?