Love letter to my husband: The lighthousekeepers timeline

In my mind is another timeline, somewhen else before constant chatter became the norm and we could sit in the quiet for hours, and our movements were altogether slower and more deliberate. We are on a fog-washed island, or Scottish coastline, far from anything, tending a lighthouse, and somehow we've always been there. Maybe it's the desolation or the fog or that it's long ago before there were so many humans, but it feels that the world is just you and I. 

Source: Flickr

This story-thought takes me to a boulder down below the lighthouse, half submerged in the sea, where we lay as one while the waves beat over us- rhythmic, beating, pulling, pushing. Maybe it's a gray Sunday morning, or late at night with a harvest moon spilling a path of melted gold out onto the ocean that surrounds us, and we are spotlit from above. 

I imagine your arms, just as they are now, strong and perfectly made to wrap around me, capable of hard work, and capable of warming and comforting, just as they are now, with black sea creatures and axes etched on them, just as now, just as now. 

Still from "The Lighthouse" (2019)

The Fog Warning, by Winslow Homer

I see myself in long thick linen dresses and tall boots with golden hair just as now blowing in the wet wind, tending the garden by the rough sea where only the hardiest of root crops can be sustained, while you're down on the rocks pulling in fish for us, we have some chickens there, and maybe a couple of old and big hounds, wire-haired and wise-eyed, who curl up on an eiderdown by the fire each evening.

Source: Pinterest

Source: Pinterest

In bed, the flicker of fire and the revolving light pass over your mouth and neck and chest and when I can't sleep I lie there watching you breathe, such a sacred gift to my own life- you, there, warm, breathing. That in and out is the most precious tide I know. The same saltwater that laps at the speck of land we sail on in time, swells in my eyes, and my chest churns at the terror of time passing, which I hear with each passing heartbeat. 

Source: Flickr

When I'm in the car with you now, this present-day, sometimes I look over at your face that feels like my own, and pretend we're in our little boat, just off to do a chore or some fishing, and that there are no 9-5's or highways to separate us, or electrical grids to distract or speed anything up, and we're back on our sea, where I think we once were together, many lifetimes ago. Then I think, I found him again, and how no matter which tale we find ourselves in throughout eternity, if we find each other, we will find home.

I will look for you in every lifetime, and love you there.

Sunshine season

"Sing, heavenly muse"

It's the time of year when I'm left alone in my summer hermitage while Eric goes off to wildfire camp. I've learned to fill this space of longing and missing with other things that maybe I don't have as much room for when wrapped in the warm blanket of giving and receiving love, attention, time. This creates an annual sense of balance overall, I think, so I try not to get too melancholic or view him being gone as a lack.

Right now, it is half past 9 o'clock in the evening but the summer sun has only just recently rolled over the horizon, leaving a deep amber glow on the mountain over there, the darkening blue sky behind, while two deer rest under the lilac tree just feet from me, the walls of the house between us.

Here are the faces I've come to know so well, Charlie and Sara are the little twins in front, a bit bigger now, and they are the two who visit the most. 

Spare an apple, Miss?

That same lilac tree holds out branched arms for friends of a feathery kind, too. The Dark-eyed Junco...
 

The Downey Woodpecker...

The plump Quail with their regal topknots...

And, gazing upward, the European Starling, whose iridescence isn't coming through in this photo...

Last week we were with family and friends in Kentucky. Those hot, humid summer days carry a nectar and a certain memory for me, one that is sweet, full of passion, and young on all fronts. I enjoy going back to visit, I miss everyone so badly, but without fail, when I return here to my Okanogan Highlands, and am out on the land, most recently crouched down in the boreal-like forest with huckleberry-stained hands, listening to the pine-wind, the larch-wind, the distant loon, feeling the clean dry air gliding across my skin... that is home. I appreciate the reptile-ripe verdant vigor of the flora and the cacophony of cicadas in the South, the wonder of fireflies, but my place is the wolf woods, the moose woods, the hare-holed ground, where angels flit from tree to tree, and there is space and quiet for my thoughts to swing all over- why do we have mosquitoes, how do we know the prophets are right...?

.:*:.


Earlier in the Spring, I took a sourdough class and finally got a handle on it after years of falling in and out. Now I can't be stopped! We have a fresh loaf each week- rose and cardamom, then cinnamon roll focaccia, then lemon lavender... and immodestly I must say: the tastiest bread ever, straight from the oven, and long-fermented in the old way. 

Date and cheddar

Folding in rose petals

A lavender lemon loaf

A focaccia garden

.:*:.

Now for some of the adventures we've been able to squeeze in so far this year!

 

In early April, we made our way over to the Channeled Scablands- a haunting, beautiful swath of Eastern Washington where the land tells a tale most only recently began to understand. For years, geologists insisted this bizarre landscape was slowly carved by the patient hand of erosion. But as it turns out, the truth is wilder: a sudden, cataclysmic deluge -likely from the bursting of a massive ice dam at glacial Lake Missoula- raced toward the Pacific, reshaping the land in its furious wake (maybe as part of the Younger Dryas events, which is a topic I find so fascinating and love to learn about- especially intrigued by how this period corresponds to flood myths from various religious traditions, and indigenous lore).

One of my favorite features here where we live is the glacial erratics that dot the landscape of Inland Washington- these huge boulders that just sit out in the middle of grassy highlands, or deep in forests that have since grown around them. What I once thought was a slow glacial retreat that left them scattered about here, I'm now seeing through the lens of a different sort of event altogether. Those huge stones hold such a presence, I've always felt, as though so many of the things we argue about, they know, they were there for it. I sometimes rest my ear against them, like the secrets are condensed down inside and maybe if I get close and quiet I'll hear.

We had a truly inspiring sunny day exploring the area and can't wait to go back. If you're interested in seeing more about the Channeled Scablands- there's a fun episode of Ancient Apocalypse (season 1 episode 1) that will take you there! And here's a video from a week later when we returned to the area to hike Northrup Canyon.

And then on a Saturday morning in mid-May, with thermoses full, we set out to Index WA, a little town nestled in the North Cascade Mountains, with a room at a Victorian hotel awaiting us. On the way, we stopped to get lunch in Leavenworth and were lucky to catch the annual MaiFest--a celebration of Spring--underway. 

  

Later, having arrived to Index, we hiked up to Bridal Veil Falls, and got back to the hotel just in time for our dinner reservation. After we frolicked around the little Twin Peaks-y feeling town for a bit, we went in and played a game of chess up until midnight. 

In the night, the train would come through several times, cutting a light through the darkness and sending whining echoes out from jagged peak to jagged peak.

And for my fourth of July birthday, we took an impromptu trip over to the coast, to our "second home" on the Olympic Peninsula. It was a wonderful weekend, and we left wanting to buy a trawler and live on it full-time, as usual- "the northern maritime life!"

.:*:.

With the return of the sunshine season, I've also taken my local women's hiking group out rambling a few times. We have sweated and named plants and laughed and talked and swam in cold mountain lakes together, and it is such a joy to be with these women from all different walks of life, different countries, varied beliefs, with decades separating some of us, sharing in this love of place. 

The summer wanes on, and I soak it up as much as possible. All of the flowers I started from seed are showing their faces and pleasing me to no end. The black tulip...

Gerry the Geranium...

  

The dahlias...

...the night-blooming Jasmine, the tomatoes greening on the vine. 

This summer I became certified as a death / end-of-life doula and Eric reestablished his massage therapy business, which is already thriving. It is always a balance of gazing toward the horizon, but digging our toes into the ground beneath us too, isn't it? 

And so the dance of life carries on- fleeting beauty, lingering terror, everything as it should be, and each of us figuring out what we should do with it from moment to moment. 

Now I'm off to squeeze the last drops from the night - a new embroidery to begin. And tea, some reading, then into the dreams of bears, which started as soon as Eric left. Tomorrow morning I'll sleep in a little, then meet friends on a mountain to pick huckleberries into the afternoon. Tonight, if the bear comes, I'm going to offer it a fish.