writing 2018

Three More Days

There’s always a song.

For most of my life, I’ve had a song stuck in my head. Not so much stuck in my head, actually, but more a sort of mental placeholder, a marker for the time being. Others pop in and out constantly (some  I feel like I’m playing Whack-A-Mole with. “Get out of here, Bohemian Rhapsody!” Just kidding, that song rocks) but often, there’s one that sings to me in the background, over the in and outs and often it’s trying to tell me something.

When I was a young soccer player, I grew certain that whatever song popped into my head while playing would be an omen for the game. Since my 9-year-old self-was deep down a Country music rabbit-hole the outlook for my achy-breaky heart didn’t look good. After nearly three undefeated seasons I realized that my interpretation of the omens must have been slightly off. I must have just been hearing the message wrong. And so I grew to see my song companions as more of a horoscope. You can read into it whatever you want. Or you can just enjoy a (hopefully) really good song.

Last year, when we ventured to California, the song was, fittingly, “California” by Joni Mitchell. It stayed with me for months, holding space, holding its place as a teacher and a reminder amongst the awkwardness of shifting lifestyles of the beauty of this golden land and reconnected me to my love for it.

 

 

Beneath the Borealis Three More Days 10-1-18 Central Valley Sunset California

Hello, Golden State.

 

 

This year, all I could hear was Ray LaMontagne (if you don’t know this sweet Southern-ish songbird, do yourself and your ears a fabulous favor and take a listen. Don’t worry, it’s not like the Country from before). In my ear, he sang the song “Three More Days”.

“Three more days. Girl, you know I’ll be coming home to you”.

The song is about returning to your love after being out on the road and getting the job done so you can return. It’s also, to me, about how there’s a draw for the road and for home, a dichotomous relationship between being stationary and being on the move. Wanting to leave as much as he wants to come home. As much as he loves the road, he loves his lady but both take him away from the other in a sort of tug of war of the heart.

It also speaks to a pretty steamy reunion, which never hurts.

This song popped in and didn’t pop out and at first, it seemed a little too obvious. Normally, the songs that stick have a deeper meaning but “Three More Days” starting on the day we left home? Well, yeah, from start to finish our journey takes us three days.

Come on.

Easy!

 

 

Beneath the Borealis Three More Days 10-1-18 Flying to Alaska

The first of many flights. Into Winter we went.

 

 

I’ve always accepted the journey for what it is: 3 days of upheaval, of packing and repacking, a flurry of activity, of last checks on the To Do list all wrapped up in a constant state of mild to moderate anxiety. “Did I turn off the propane at the house?” “Did I bring my Winter gear in case we need cold weather survival clothing on the way home?” and the Alaskan favorite due to our constant Red-Eye flight times and constant stories of missed flights: “Did I get my flight date right?”

But all of this is normal, right?

It wasn’t until I heard the song for the 50th or so time in my head as we trucked along that I realized how incredibly bizarre a journey like this is. It feels “Old time-y”. One friend asked me if we drove all the way here. Another asked if we had taken a boat. Both were joking but it made me realize that this journey Home (in either direction) is really, really, really long!

The initial message of the song may have seemed obvious but I guess I needed it because really, truly, I had never quite recognized what a trek it is. This Summer gave me an inkling after I returned from my 5th trip out. A quick weekend trip to Fairbanks of three days I realized was actually padded on each side by travel days. 9-hour long travel days. Making the grand total actually a 5-day endeavor with a return at midnight.

And then there’s recovering from it all.

We left our home, anxiety levels high and mental and physical checklists being manically ticked off around noon. We still had a few stops but we’d be on the road by 1pm, we figured. We barreled through our last chores. First: securing all merchandise in plastic totes at the Fire Department so we wouldn’t return to a cozy vole home of shredded Fire Department hoodies laden with the sleepy-eyed little mongrels. Next: Mail to send off final Thank-Yous for our Fire Department fundraiser. Then, storage. Our dear friend generously let us store our non-freezables in his basement again. Last year it was frozen items and non-freezables but with the addition of our new solar freezer, things had changed (more on that soon).

Finally, we were picking up our road buddy and we were off! Sort of. We crossed the bridge and headed to The Chief’s boss’s home to collect his last check of the season and to check out their enormous home. There’s a tower, people. A tower. There’s also a bridge. Honestly, all they are missing is a moat and this thing is a modern-day castle. Quite the shift from the cozy cabin life. After a tour and a catch-up, the road called our names and we were off.

 

 

Beneath the Borealis Three More Days 10-1-18 Alaskan Off the Grid.jpg

Goodbye, Swimming Hole! See you in the freeze.

 

 

It was almost 2 pm.

The song began.

Nevertheless, we made great time to Town and floated into Anchorage in the late evening with plenty of time still left for a smorgasbord of sushi.

The next day was a whirlwind of “Town Chores” like doctor appointments and buying last minute winter gear and, of course, checking incessantly that we indeed had the correct departure day. “Ok, we fly on the 28th at 12:30 am so we need to be there tonight, right?” It sounds easy enough but when you’ve heard tale after tale of missed flights, you start to wonder.

Finally, it was time for the flight and after another sushi dinner (I can really pack in my “sush” on those Town Runs) we were ready. We settled in to try to get some sleep.

Nope.

A few restless, neck kinking hours later, we landed in Seattle where I suddenly remembered we had a four-hour layover. Oh joy! The Chief looked at me like I was crazy. He had been prepared for this blow. Didn’t I remember?

Nope.

We had booked the tickets way back in May and I had completely forgotten the mess we had gotten ourselves into in order to spend only a small fortune versus a large fortune on travel. The Red Eye Layover. So, at 3 AM Alaska time, we landed, tried to sleep, found ourselves incapable and succumbed to four hours of people watching and, for me, working.

Truth be told, people watching is my favorite, but sleep? Sleep is pretty high on the list too.

There would be none.

At 11:30 am we landed (hard, after popping out of the cloud cover to a seemingly closer than they realized runway) in California.

5 hours later, after a meal (a second for me. I had already had sushi for breakfast. I know, it’s a problem) and multiple introductions to friends of my Mama’s we were in bed.

Three days of travel and we had finally arrived.

We were exhausted.

And rightly so. Three days of travel. How had I not seen it before?

In the three days since we’ve been here, the song has continued. Perhaps, it’s helping me to see the obvious: that this trip I’ve always taken to be “normal” is actually above and beyond “normal”, ranging on “crazy” and thus granting ourselves permission to dip into the California pool slowly, toes first. To take time to acclimate.

 

 

Beneath the Borealis Three More Days 10-1-18 Northern California

Dip the toes in. Peek out from the clouds.

 

 

Perhaps, outside of the obvious, which was not so obvious to me, it’s there to remind me of the dichotomy in which we live, the two very different lands our hearts simultaneously straddle. The wanting to stay and the wanting to go and the beauty of wanting both at once. It’s both hard to leave and a joy to arrive in both places. The pull of the new and the warmth of the known and the way each shifts to fill the hole the other creates.

Perhaps it’s an omen.

Perhaps it’s just a really good song.

Either way, in any way, it’s this year’s anthem.

Cheers to you and yours, whether at home or on the road, nestled in and waiting for Winter or rushing away with the chill of Fall nipping at your heels. Cheers to the omens, great and small.

 

 

Beneath the Borealis Three More Days 10-1-18 Fall in Alaska

Until next Fall.

 

 

With love,

from Alaska & California

P.S. Next week, one of my best friends is getting married and so, in wanting to be present with her, I’ll be taking the week off. See you in two!

I Am an Artist

I am an artist.

I can’t tell you how many other artists just cringed at reading that.

Not because they deem it false or have questions as to my membership in the club. In fact, not because of anything to do with me at all. It is, in my experience, because they are wrestling with their own membership in this club or remembering the first time they announced their arrival.

This may not be true for every artist. I dare not declare it universal, lest the unicorn artists who knew they were just that from birth come and correct my wrong statement. I will say, after spending a weekend with artists that it seemed a nearly universally hard statement to conjure up for the first time for everyone. Some, even those on panels, were still choking on it.

Yet, I’ve said it.

You see, last weekend I attended the Alaska State Council on the Arts biennial conference in Fairbanks.

 

Beneath the Borealis I Am an Artist Fairbanks AK.jpg

Rainbow hills. Rainbow leaves.

 

I first heard about the conference a few months ago when a friend, who’s helped me more in writing this year than I can explain, mentioned that it was coming up. I looked at her and said something along the lines of “Oh, that will be fun!” She looked at me as if to say “Yeah…that’s why I’m telling you about it.”

A few minutes of her explaining it later and I still didn’t get it.

Finally, she put it in terms I could hear:

“Julia, it’s an artist’s conference. You’re an artist. You should sign-up.”

Oh!

Oh?

Oh…

I’m an artist?

 

Beneath the Borealis I Am an Artist Fairbanks AK hunting.jpg

Artists: Enter Here.

 

When I first started this blog, it unleashed in me the well-kept secret from myself that I, in fact, do want to be an artist. Yet I wasn’t ready to call myself one. As a youngster, I knew I was an artist, as kids simply know themselves without ego or fear. I was a singer and a writer and I knew it down to the depths of my little lady being that an artist was what I wanted to be.

How?

Because I felt alive.

Alive when I sang.

Alive when I wrote.

Yet, as I grew and grades and prestige and stability became a focus, I let that knowledge go and I covered it up with the “shoulds” of existence which placed more emphasis on succeeding than feeling alive.

And soon, I felt deadened.

Moving here allowed me to step outside of myself. It allowed me to bring with me not only that which was useful from my old life but to re-invite those aspects of myself I had lost. It felt like I was traveling. I was free to be whomever I deemed myself to be. And without thought, I suddenly found myself in a band, singing again. I had invited art back in and it had entered my life with a warmth I hadn’t felt in decades.

That first Winter, writing invited herself in. She opened the door, kicked off the snow and asked not why she’d been sequestered for so long but if I was, in fact, ready to begin.

I was.

I am.

I am an artist.

It may not be easy to say, but once you do, it’s like walking through the closet door into Narnia. The world feels a little more magical. It’s exciting and important and alive.

You don’t have to be a full-time artist to be called an artist. You don’t have to be in a gallery or be published or be the director of a Broadway hit. Art can lie in the simple act of taking the time to study a flower that strikes you, in letting your mind play. It can be as small as decorating a salad you make or as big as a complex canvas painting you’ve spent hours on end creating. It can be the notes you scribbled on a piece of paper towel 30 years ago that become your book 30 years later. It can be a photo that inspired reflection.

 

 

Beneath the Borealis I Am an Artist Fairbanks AK downtown.jpg

Urban mirrors.

 

There are no entry fees, merely the self-realization that you cannot be anything else.

Do what makes you feel alive.

With love,

from Alaska.