The mountains of New Mexico are calling. Europe if I could make a clean break, but my daughter is moving back to town. She loves me. She sustains my hope. Not in a creepy way. In an assurance of energy, love, and abundance. The cats (have I mentioned my new crew?) would love New Mexico, but the drive would be torture.
The acrobatic staff includes Sid the Curious is named after my late favorite sister. Hunter the Lover is named after Hunter S. Thompson. It was Sid’s face on the adoption page that captivated me. Her shelter name was Everything Bagel 22. Obviously not the first. She’s the squeaker. Everywhere she goes little yips of yes blips of hey and whistles of “We need more food in the bowls, Captain. And some of that delicious squeeze stuff, please!” Of course, we know they are piloting the ship. I’ve retired. Leisure time, fitness, and good sleep. Those are my priorities. Longevity.
What I’ve been longing for my entire life is a room to write. Time to write. I’ve never lacked for something to write about. The novels and books of poetry are queued up for longer than I can feasibly hope to remain mobile and sentient. And here I am. Writing. What a wonderful gift. Later I have tennis. A bit of freelance work to help a non-profit get their online advertising in order. I am in my comfy chair with the warming pad giving my serving shoulder a bit of repair. Today is a two-a-day. Cardio at noon. A mixed doubles match at 7 pm. Today is a perfect day.
Still.
Parts of my soul still long for the snow now blanketing Santa Fe. The calling of silence and strangers. The smell of burning piñon. Ghosts of my sister and mother. Spicy foods, margaritas estranged, air stinging the lungs on short walks outside. I want to be someone estranged from myself.
But there is work to be done. Big bumbling creative work. Books. Publishing. Editing. Writing. Making movies for promotions. Driving on into the non-snow of my Austin life. The cats have brought a new hum and warmth to my life. The rumble and tumble for position on my chest at night as I read in bed. I am surrounded by love. I long for the breast to cuddle while drifting off to sleep, but for now, a purry comedy team performs tricks as I disconnect my mind from the river of do and be and write and sing. Drift.
Snow. Mountains. Sister Sidney. I know too much aloneness and I become sad. Even doing something fun and thrilling, the emptiness can creep up on me. Skiing alone last year, I was happy and inspired. Also, tired. I know aging is beginning to slow my steps a bit. My stamina takes tiny hits with every passing month. I can feel my recovery times more painfully, slowly, and ominous. Like a hangover, when I don’t drink, but play two and a half hours of tennis. I take magnesium and ibuprofen. I praise Jesus in my hot tub. And now I revel in my companions and the skits and songs they prepare for me while I’m out.
Entire creative shelves have been cleared by them. Swiped to the floor. I leave them. They were gathering dust. Now they gather it on the floor, where they can fall no more. The cats are equal opportunity scratch and smashers. I haven’t even let them into the best of all cat rooms, the screened-in porch. I’m giving them a little time to orient, map, destroy, take over.
I tried to be conscious of not filling my aching heart from my breakup in June. I knew it would hurt. I knew I needed to feel the loneliness. The gap in my relationship-building adventure. A bit loss. And yet… I was released into even more joy and expansion. Without guardrails, New York City was a pre-planned escape that arrived at just the right time.
“This is me breaking up with you,” I said when she got back from her trip home to California. The trip I couldn’t join because my son was driving all over town with a fast car full of Glocks and AR-15s. I needed to pay attention to this moment, this cycle, this person. I could not just “take a break, come to California.” And when I did make the leap, booking plane reservations, her first response was, “You booked the wrong return flight, I can’t use my air miles.”
I canceled the flight. We would have it out a few days later in her pool.
I tried to be gentle, nice, kind-hearted. She tuned out the parts she didn’t want to hear. “I need to be alone right now,” I said, in the pool. “I can’t tell you I’m going away for a three-month break. I don’t know. I am out. I am not coming back.”
Six months earlier, after my solo snow adventure that turned sad, I invited my girlfriend to come with me to New Mexico. She had declared a few years earlier that she no longer wanted to snow ski. There were many options to make it work. My daughter would come and skiing, then we could all explore and play in Santa Fe in the evenings. We were usually worn out after three days on the mountain, so we’d have a lot of time together. My girlfriend passed on the trip. A few days in she said she regretted the decision, on a short phone call. “I could fly you to Albuquerque. We can take a day off skiing and come get you, just like last year.”
She passed. I began to release her at that time. She didn’t like the cold. Okay. Didn’t want to ski. Okay. But the holiday break alone, for her, was revealing. She was sadder and sadder when I called to check-in. My son’s malfunction was in high gear and I was not in a place to comfort her or expend a lot of energy to reassure her. I turned toward my own life, my daughter, my next move.
The move, of course, was nothing. Actually, a month later, I flew us to San Francisco for a long weekend. A gift, a reprieve, a repair for the lost New Mexico trip. It went well. We traveled quite comfortably together. Her magical California was an obsession for her. SF was a bit different. We both had stories and memories. Chinatown. City Lights Bookstore. The Wharf.
The illumination for me was striking. I had so much connectivity and “yes” from my daughter while we were grooving in New Mexico. And while things were fine and lovely between my girlfriend and me, it almost felt like there was a layer of caution between us. I don’t know if she was feeling sad or angry about New Mexico, or if she was just moody. Hard to tell. There was a lack of “yes” and plenty of “okay.”
I pulled back my camera angle a bit and tried to understand what was changing. I could see our two-and-a-half years like a road map. We’d come from different worlds, joined in Austin, and begun a rich and happy life together. Over time, however, our styles began to show a gap.
So, today, here in this perfect place, I am restless. Wanting. Hungry. Out of balance?
Pepe the big yellow spider was swiped away a few days ago by a large bird. I was looking at my hummingbird feeder and a black stripe zoomed by and Pepe and his masterful architecture was no more. Evolved. Moved on.
How is this moment restless? What is it inside that craves leaving? How does the ocean heal? Or is it some dip back into the stream of my childhood? All is well here. Yet, I want something else. A craving more than a requirement.
Woman.
Why the obsession? Even as I’ve declared myself off the market until next year, I have my eyes open and my gut sucked in. I like myself. I like where I am. I like having a messy house, for now. I’m willing to clean up. For now, the cats rule. The writing rules. Other strokes, music, work, exercise, must bow down to the plan.
The mountains, for now, are more muse than destination.
