On a Jet Plane

I'm going on a trip tomorrow, flying out and coming back in something like ten days which, even for an exciting trip, seems unreasonably long. I already miss my own bed, my home, my Ed. It's silly, the way we get afraid of being without the comforts of our lives.

I'm going to the desert alone, for a reunion of sorts and a work-related event. Work is sending me, which sounds glamorous and I suppose it is, when I think of it from the outside. I'm flying into sunny San Diego in the middle of a cold New England winter. I'm spending 6 days camping in the desert with all the good and dedicated people of the Desert Restoration Corps. Afterwards, I'm renting a car and driving north to Ventura. I'm visiting interns at Channel Islands National Park, catching a boat to Anacapa and trying out tidepool inventory with a class of fourth-graders.

It sounds good, I know, but I am not excited. Instead, I'm looking on the dim side of things, the half-empty side where dread and regret and fear live in wait. I'm counting on the airport madness, my heavy bags and the hassle of carrying all my camping gear across the country. I'm fretting about packing, and knowing what to bring. I'm counting on the wind, and the cold, and restless nights in my tent, alone. I'm bowled over with expectations from work-types who think of all I might accomplish in the way of stories and photos while I'm gone. I'm banking on my limited creative abilities to return less-than-stellar results. I'm dreading the lack of running water, feeling like six days of camping is a long time, despite the nine months I tucked under my belt last year alone. I'm afraid of driving through LA, and making it on time for my return flight out of the baddest, busiest city this side of Hong Kong.

What is my deal?? It's not as if I didn't choose this, lobby for it, even, when the plans at work started rolling in. It's not that I don't want to go, or even that I don't want to go alone. The truth is, I do. It will be good I'm sure, just as soon as I get there. Just as soon as it starts going and I can stop thinking about it all the time. I've never been good at anticipation.

Provisional

Ed and I trekked out in the middle of the blustery storm, when the snow had piled around my car over the wheel wells and atop the roof at a height of thirteen inches. Luckily, we weren't driving. We were hiking in snow shoes and snow pants and boots, hats and mittens and face wraps, wool socks and thermal under-layers. And we were on a mission.

Down the sidewalk snowbanks we hiked and across the icy street, the parking lot and the driveways. We reached the video store just in time before it closed for the night, the clerks on their way home on slick streets, through windy gusts. Ed and I snapped off our snowshoes and leaned them with our poles inside the store's front window. We wandered the aisles, made our choices, and suited back up for the trek.

On our way home, we swung through the corner store and stocked up on supplies: ice cream in pints. Two flavors. High sugar, heavy cream. Made in Vermont.

We were well-equipped to weather this V-day storm.

Sgt. Pepper's Snowed In Hearts Club Band

Northern New England has its perks, like snow, snow and more snow on Valentine's Day and "working from home" in my pajamas with my sweetheart. I hear that Boston got more sleet than snow, and Chicago winced at a measly 6 inches. Not here, baby! We're gearing up for 18-30" and reveling in the slick streets and taking refuge inside warm houses with hot tea and ski plans for the weekend.

It's our fourth V-Day together, and we're carrying on a tradition of picnic dinners in our living room. On our first one together, we sat on my dorm room floor and ate something Italian, I think, and then ran off to the hockey game where they showed couples inside a heart-shaped box on the jumbo-tron. We didn't make it onto the screen, but we smooched anyway.

V-2 was in Chicago, and Ed cooked a fabulous feast in his old apartment. Chicken with mushrooms, pink wine and dessert. He made me a card, like he always does, and I brought him flowers. Gerber daisies, our favorites.

Last year, the desert invalidated every concept of time and space so if we remembered it was Valentine's Day, I'm sure we didn't really celebrate. It may have been noon before we noticed the date. We may have taken a second away from the chaos. We may have smiled, or we may have cringed at how much of our normal lives we'd left behind. Most likely, we were consumed with everything else and felt like this holiday didn't hold a candle or warrant much attention in the midst of our desert life.

This year, things have mellowed into a good sort of pattern, a level of comfort that begins to feel like home. We have our own time and space, just like we've wanted, and our apartment is gathering in around us. With the weather outside as it is, we're staying in and keeping warm with dim lights and quiet. It's nice to be here, to be home, with him.

Happy Valentine's Day, friends! It's not just a day for lovers, remember. It's just a day for love.

Up Date

Twenty people showed up to our party, and I watched in awe as they mingled and meshed and made friends and laughed and hugged and I said: wow. We know twenty people, twenty excellent people who would spend their Friday night with us, making our party what it was.

We ate chili and cupcakes, cookies and pasta, chips and cheese and chorrizo, hummus and salsa, wine, beer and soda. Chocolates from a heart-shaped box. Olive oil bread. Strawberry shortcake. For the record, potluck-style is definitely the way to go.

The winter is flying by, because now it's mid-February and I haven't once melted into a pool of season-induced despair. The sky is nearly always bright, even if it's snowing, reminding me why northern New England is really the place for me. In one week, I fly to California to revisit the desert, retrieve some memories and collect a story or two. Work is sending me, but I'll consider it a vacation anyway.

Last night, we donned our fanciest gear and hopped a caravan to Vermont's capital city for the annual Barrister's Ball, a prom of sorts for lawyerly types and their legal ladies and gents. It was like high school, only without as much dizzying awkwardness and dramatic anticipation. Ed and I danced like crazy people, something we only otherwise do in the safety of our own kitchen. It was a victory for us to let loose and have fun on a dance floor, surrounded by a hundred other gyrating, shaking dancing fools. I met more of Ed's school friends and sang AC/DC at the top of my lungs. Fun fun fun.

It's been a month of hockey games and snow flurries, work antics, trivia nights, dinner with friends and football games. I've been knitting more and sleeping less, but enjoying the nights just the same. Ed and I have unfurrowed our brows and decided that laughing is better than not. I've been getting back to a place where I want to be. I've been thinking about grad school, about searching out a program that works for me. I've been looking ahead again, and finding that there's more time and space than I ever imagined, out there for the taking. I've been forgiving myself, and deciding how to feel rather than feeling my way into a decision. It's been working, and I feel good. I feel good and solid.