The move to Alaska

Before flying out of Los Angeles to Alaska, the place I'd chosen to move, I sat on the blue carpet of the Airport terminal-- one of those big circular ends of the Airport with 5 different gates leading to 5 different planes leading to 5 different destinations across the globe-- and I learned how to play hearts. I've "learned how to play hearts" several times in my life, it must be said, because I can never remember the rules of that game so I just tell people I've never played before. This particular time I was being taught by a guy that would become my boyfriend and with whom I would eventually live with in a sad little basement apartment with an obstructed view of a broken down datsun. But that's a different blogpost. A little kid came to look at my cat. I waited with several other kids (yeah we were kids, at 24 or 25 years old) who were also moving to AK.

I don't remember much about the plane ride. Never take your cat out of it's cage on a plane, that's what I got out of that experience.

I met a stranger in the airport who was to be my first roommate in AK, and he took me to our little house on the opposite side of town. As I followed him to his car in the underground garage I kept waiting to confront the cold (it was January and I'd lived in California my whole life). It hit me in the garage, a refreshing, icy feeling. I was almost disappointed not to walk into a snowstorm. I expected a much more extreme reaction from my body, but I was okay with it. (I'd get my fill of extreme discomfort later on.) It was nighttime, and my first view of Alaska was driving out of the airport to empty streets, the sidewalks covered with piles of snow well over 5 feet, and massive pines with white covered boughs. It looked fake to me, not in a negative way, but it resembled the only things I'd seen before that were similar: fake snow scenes made of foam, plastic, and covered in glitter; ancient black and white movie scenes; etc.

The next important moment was the next morning, waking up and seeing the sun get up at 9am, just barely rising and lying low but shining bright below the treeline on a bright blue sky, and the view out of my window-- snow, sunlight, and the Chugach Mountains. The Chugach. Covered in snow, infinitely older than me, infinitely larger than me, holding onto parts of this world that I thought were lost to America-- real wilderness and all the secrets of land that has never been stepped on and animals that will never see a human. A secret part of my heart, a part of myself that is frightening to consider. It is not to be understood. You belong to it. You love it, and you fear it.

That was my first morning.

a simple, frugal heart

I can hear birds chirping but I can't see them, only imagine them in big leafy trees protecting little brown nests made of twigs. In my room, sitting on the unmade bed, propped up against the wall looking through the iron bedframe, through the wooden window shades, through their reflection on the glass and I can barely see outside, but I know cars are passing by on their way home from work. "Producers and commuters of steel civilization." Or more likely, men and women who sit behind a computer all day and stare at brightly lit screens. The room fills with light and darkens again as clouds are passing in front of the sun. It's a summer afternoon in early June-- in Los Angeles we're still pushing through the mists, walking through wet sprinkling mornings and driving home in the victorious sun and it's generous heat.

I'm glad to have a large bed to serve as my desk until the rest of the room gets cleaned up and I can move everything else in. All that's missing is the sound of the sea. (Don't focus on what's not there, don't try to change it but accept it, appreciate the slow afternoon, the commuter traffic, the obstructed view and the waning sunlight, she tells herself.)

It's a new goal, or rather an old goal made new again, to force myself into the moment and appreciate it for what it is. (to have a simple and frugal heart). And then to write down those little details that make this moment unlike any other. Right now I appreciate post-shower freshness, a combination of pillows, a book that smells good-- old pages smell sweet, bare feet, wet hair, and the promise of a chicken dinner.

"We stayed silent by the brazier until far into the night. I felt once more how simple and frugal a thing is happiness: a glass of wine, a roast chestnut, a wretched little brazier, the sound of the sea. Nothing else. And all that is required to feel that here and now is happiness is a simple and frugal heart."

Remember.