- Page 10 of 11 -

Cristo Redentor

Posted on June 28, 2015 by Janet

Yesterday was a dark day for me, friends. I spent most of the day under the covers, my mind occupied with fears of what the unknown future brings. What had been my joy the day before became my nightmare – being a stranger in a strange land. I got up to run and realized I had no idea where I should go. The nearby park didn’t seem amenable to runners, and the waterfront seemed too far. I already feel like a zoo animal around here, the last thing I felt like doing was stumbling around downtown in my running clothes looking like I didn’t know what I was doing. This triggered an avalanche of negative things in my mind. Fatigue suddenly washed over me. I didn’t leave the apartment all day.

It comes in cycles, you know? Maybe one day I’ll transcend those cycles (that’s the hope, after all!), but yesterday was not that day. Meantime, days like yesterday just make days like today that much more magical.

Today, I caught the bus out to see the Christ the Redeemer statue. Rio has some ~1000 different bus routes, but very little online resources (or any resources, really) for understanding what route each bus takes. I was able to get some leads on getting to Cristo Redentor because of its popularity, but all that really told me was any bus going to “Cosme Velho” would get me there. Yes, but which buses in Centro go to Cosme Velho? And where do I catch them? That’s the difficult part of riding the bus in the Rio.

The easy part of riding the bus in Rio is that, basically, you go stand on a busy street and wait for a bus that’s going your direction – with ~1000 bus routes, one’s bound to come along. All the buses have signs in the front window that cycle through their major stops, so when you see one going to the general area where you want to go, you flag it down and hop on.

So, when a bus came along saying it was going to “Cosme Velho,” I hopped on. Now, I’ve tried my best not to look too much like a tourist and blend in, but I had to pull out my map on the bus. I wanted to follow the route the bus took. Knowing where I was, where I was going, and how I was getting there not only made taking the bus less stressful, it also helped me to know where to get off the bus – something I wouldn’t have known otherwise.

The bus dropped me off in Corcovado, right outside the cable car that takes you up the mountain to Cristo Redentor:

The cute little cable car that took us up the mountain.

The ride took a good 20-25 minutes, with stops to allow the car coming in the opposite direction to pass. The first time we stopped, men selling water along the railway came walking up and down the sides of the cars, which surprised everyone – you see street vendors everywhere in Rio, you just don’t expect to see them on the side of a mountain, yet there they were. The scenery on the ride was beautiful. The cable car cut a path through the forest, occasionally passing by a large, well-hidden mountain home (one had a private tennis court), sometimes passing by shear drops on one side, and sometimes offering gorgeous views of the city as it climbed higher up the mountain.

The view of the city from Cristo Redentor really is incredible:

Stunning panoramic view from Cristo Redentor.

I saw a handful of folks praying at the base of the statue, but most were there to take in the view and snap pics. Apparently, this is the thing to do when posing for a pic with Cristo:

The weather was really beautiful when I got up there, and then the clouds started rolling in:

They rolled in from the ocean first, then they came rolling up the mountain from underneath:

Same as above – Sugarloaf on the left, Leblon on the right.

In just a few minutes, we were totally engulfed:

Same view as above - Sugarloaf on left, Leblon on right. — Same view as above – Sugarloaf on left, Leblon on right.

I loved getting to enjoy the view when the weather was clear and getting to see how the clouds rolled – literally rolled – up the mountain and swirled around the giant statue. It was spectacular.

I headed back down the mountain with my sights set on the botanical garden. I had to wait a while for a bus that would take me there and didn’t get there until 4pm – an hour before closing (the sun sets around 5:20 pm, remember). I decided I would save the R$9 entrance fee for a day when I would have more time.

From the botanical garden, I walked a few blocks to one of the few organic markets in Rio. It is my lament that whole food is incredibly hard to come by here. Everything is hyper processed, with lots of added sugars, salt, and preservatives. There’s no such thing as just “milk” here – all the milk comes with some kind of added preservatives. Same with yogurt – no plain yogurt. If there’s any attention paid to free-range, cage-free, or pasture-fed, I haven’t found it. There are only a handful of organic stores and restaurants in the city, and they’re all located in the tourist beach areas, so I was really looking forward to taking advantage of what they had to offer while I was in the area.

The store I went to is called “Universo Organico,” but “Pluto Organico” might have been a better name given its miniature size. It wasn’t a market as much as a tiny novelty shop inside a shopping mall. They had a lot of packaged organic(?) products, but not a lot of fresh produce or dairy. I grabbed a few things and decided I would try a different market when I was back in the area.

Back to the bus.

*Interesting tidbit on riding the bus in Rio: the driver doesn’t handle fare collection. Another employee sits opposite and behind the driver, takes your money and gives you change, and operates an actual turnstile inside the bus that allows you to move from the bus entrance into the body of the bus once you’ve paid.

I headed to the nearest, busiest road and hoped for luck. A local asked me something in Portuguese, to which I responded that I don’t speak Portuguese. Fortunately, he spoke English. He asked if one of the buses that came by that stop went to Centro, and I told him I sure hoped so! We hopped on a bus and he was kind enough to help me back to Lapa, which I was grateful for since it was getting dark and would soon be difficult to navigate.

TL;DR: Successfully navigated Rio’s bus system, enjoyed gorgeous city views as reward!

Brazil/Travelogue

Ola, Rio!

Posted on June 26, 2015 by Janet

I made it to Rio yesterday! I cannot tell you how happy I felt to be on that flight. Not happy to be thinking about all the things that were going to happen when I got to Rio, all the things I would see, all the food I would eat, all the people I would meet, just happy to be sitting on that plane, at that moment, on my way. It was quite blissful.

Arriving in Rio felt like coming home to me, as strange as that may sound. Partially, I’ve flown into this airport before, knew what to expect, and recognized certain landmarks. Beyond that, though, even being in the taxi – speaking negligible Portuguese – and winding my way to my AirBnB had a certain air of coming home about it. I know it’s not about coming home to Rio, but about coming home to something I love – travel. The newness, the unexpected, the not knowing what’s around the corner, the learning to speak the language, the being fairly out of control – it all commands your attention, your focus, right now, right here. It’s exhilarating.

I flew from Portland, a fair ways north of the equator, just after the summer solstice when the sun sets around 9pm(?) and arrived in Rio, a little ways south of the equator, just after the winter solstice when the sun sets around 5:15pm – quite a difference! The flight was an overnighter, 9 hours, and, despite having two seats – a whole row – all to myself on the flight here, I didn’t sleep well on the plane. I arrived Thursday morning tired and jet-lagged and spent most of the daylight hours sleeping. I didn’t want to spend my very first night in the city walking around after dark, so I found a place nearby for dinner and called it a night. I was surprised when I was ready for bed around 11pm after sleeping so much of the day, but then I slept a good 12 hours(!), not getting out of bed this morning until 11:30am.

I hit the town and found a place for lunch, then went for a walk to familiarize myself with the local area. At one point, I was enticed up a wide staircase that had been decorated with paint and tiles and such (forgive me for not taking pictures – I stick out enough as it is, I don’t wish to call any more attention to myself by snapping photos). It was very lovely, but I had no idea where it went. There were homes along the staircase, old buildings that were built tightly together and which were beautiful in the way that decaying old buildings are. It wasn’t an actual favela – a Brazillian slum – but it looked like it to my eyes. There were a few people sitting around or traversing the staircase, as well. When I got to the top, it let out onto a couple narrow streets and, after consulting Apple, I decided to keep going straight up the hill in front of me. When I got to the top of the hill, there was a beautiful view of Rio to the south. Christ the Redeemer was off to the west and shrouded in clouds while the rest of Rio unfolded out toward Copacabana and Ipanema beaches.

At this point, I turned around and meandered back in the direction I’d come from, walking up and down side streets, trying to get a feel for the layout and where things were. A few blocks to my east is a small park in a traffic circle with exercise equipment anyone can just walk up and use – simple elliptical gliders and such. Located on that circle is a hospital in a very old building that looks more like an old palace or museum. I walked by one of the entrances and saw curving, ornate staircases with black and gold-colored paint just inside the door. I got a small acai cup from some girls selling them nearby. I walked by a huge cathedral that looks nothing like what you would think a cathedral should look like, but looked like a huge, upside-down bee hive (wide on bottom and narrow on top). Then I stumbled upon the Lapa Arches. The Lapa Arches are quite the landmark, standing nearly 60 feet high, bright white, with two rows of Romanesque arches. The Arches were built in 1723 as part of the Carioca Aqueduct to bring water from the Carioca river to the city. I didn’t get any photos myself, but I found this lovely image for you (the Cathedral I was talking about is in the background, as well):

Interacting with the locals has been fun, mostly because I’m so inept at communicating with them and am largely at their mercy, and I think they’re not too sure what to make of me. I doubt they get many foreigners running around the city alone who speak practically no Portuguese, especially women. So far, I’ve only had occasion to interact with waiters, shop keepers, and the doormen at the apartment complex. Oh, and one other building resident, but he spoke English (he told me I didn’t have a California accent, which I thought was amusing). Everyone has been friendly and accommodating.

If you read my about page, you know that the premise for my travels is to learn to dance whatever the local dance is. Zouk is the dance I’ll be learning in Brazil, and I’ve been in touch with a Zouk instructor here, but I’m not sure when she’s actually going to be able to accommodate me. In the meantime, I’m looking forward to a few adventures that will take me farther afoot than my local surroundings – using the metro and bus systems to visit Christ the Redeemer and the Botanical Gardens.

TL;DR: Enjoying being an American fool in Rio.

Uncategorized

Facepalm

Posted on June 23, 2015 by Janet

So, I went to Kinko’s today to make copies of my visa and what do you think happened?

…

Oh ho! Friends, you know me too well. Yes, I DID leave my passport sitting on the copy machine! Try maintaining present moment focus when you wish you could teleport to the Kinko’s RIGHT NOW but you’re stuck in traffic.

Thank God for online flight check-in, or I wouldn’t have discovered my folly until tomorrow morning, and THAT would have been ugly indeed.

And, yes, I did get my passport back 🙂

Uncategorized

Why I Write

Posted on June 23, 2015 by Janet

Your home is that thing to which you can dedicate your energies with such singular devotion that the ultimate results become inconsequential.

– Elizabeth Gilbert, Ted Talk.

Some people might be wondering why I choose to write this blog. Some people might even feel embarrassed for me in reading my posts, or they might find my writing so discomfiting that they choose not to read it at all. After all, I write about deep, dark, personal things I think most people would be ashamed to admit to themselves or to their closest intimates. I was ashamed to admit such things not too long ago, sometimes even to myself. So, why air my “dirty laundry” so publicly? Why expose myself so willingly to others who might try to use my openness against me?

Firstly, I write because I’m compelled to. Eight years ago, I felt I was on the brink of a breakdown, so consumed was I by confusing, conflicting, and scary emotions. At the end of my rope, feeling I could talk to no one about what was going on inside me, I turned to writing for release. Anna Nalick captured this feeling beautifully in her song “Breathe:”

2 AM and I’m still awake, writing a song
If I get it all down on paper, it’s no longer
Inside of me, threatening the life it belongs to

Secondly, I write for catharsis. For the last 8 years, my journal has been an abundant source of contemplation and therapy for me. It’s a place where I can explore my thoughts, emotions, motivations, decisions, actions, behaviors, and shadow without fear of judgment or reprisal. I have learned so much and learned to let go of so much through my writing. When some thought, fear, emotion, or concern overwhelms me and takes me over, I go straight to my journal for release.

My journal is my lifeblood, but I never intended to make public the inner workings of my mind, my struggles with despair, with loneliness, with life. In fact, the thought of others knowing my darkest, most shameful thoughts terrified me. I felt incredibly vulnerable to being used, manipulated, trampled on, abandoned. I kept up a thick shield that I never fully took down, even with friends. In doing so, I unconsciously drove others away. I felt isolated. Worse than that, I was afraid others would find out how alone I was, how unsatisfying my life was, how miserably I was failing at being happy (no doubt they all knew anyway – it’s not exactly something that hides well).

I got to watching Ted Talks a few years ago. I wish I could remember the first Ted Talk I watched, but I remember instantly falling in love with Ted Talks, with the abundance of talks from enigmatic speakers on every topic under the sun. Maybe a year or two ago, perusing the “most popular” list for something to watch, I stumbled on Brene Brown’s talk on vulnerability. Her talk spoke to my heart not only – and not even firstly – because of what she found in her research (which I found to be moving and poignant in its own right), but because of her sharing her own story of struggle and shame and vulnerability with an open heart. She demonstrated in that talk what she had found in her research – that vulnerability creates connection. I felt connected to her. I admired her so much, and I appreciated her so much because in telling her story, she was telling my story too, giving voice to what I could only write of silently in my journal. And I remember thinking that I could never do that. I could never get up and tell my story like she did. And while I loved her for doing it, I didn’t understand why she did it – wasn’t she afraid to concede “failure?” Wasn’t she afraid of the judgment she might face? Didn’t she worry what anyone else thought of her? I hadn’t seen anyone else get up in front of crowd of people to talk about the emotional breakdown they had after their research didn’t go as planned.

Others followed Brene Brown: Jill Bolte Taylor, Andrew Solomon (this one, too), Tony Porter and others. I was moved by their stories, and by their willingness to tell them. Listening to them tell their stories brought me great relief, as if they were lifting a weight off my own shoulders. I loved and admired and appreciated these people for what they gave me in telling their stories, yet I could never imagine having the courage or the strength to do the same. What would I even say?

For these speakers, their fear and shame became a force for good when they shared their stories with others. Sharing their fear and shame became a force for good because it both allowed them to let go of the burden they were carrying and it created a healing sense of connection with their audiences. There’s a reason all of these talks have had millions of views – by shining the spotlight on their own shame and fear, they enable others to bring a little of their own shame and fear to the light to be healed. By sharing their stories with us, the make us feel not so alone.

I let go of my fear of telling my story the day I let go of my fear of walking away from known misery. I tell my story because doing so keeps me honest – I can’t lie to myself, I can’t blame the world around me, when I have readers to hold me to the fire. I tell my story because having no secrets means having no shame, and what a relief it is drop the burden of shame. I tell my story because telling my story heals us both, connects us both, makes us both feel not so alone. I tell my story as an expression of gratitude to those who’ve shared their own story so openly and generously with me. I tell my story because I can. I tell my story because I have to.

As an aside, I want to address any concerns you may have for me when I write about the darkness inside me – my fear, my shame, my anxiety, my hopelessness, my loneliness, my despair, my hate. We all feel all these things to greater or lesser degrees, we just tend not to talk about or acknowledge it. We tend to label these things as “bad,” and we feel poorly about ourselves when we feel this way and worry about our loved ones when they experience the same feelings. Those are the seeds of repression and shame. I welcome your compassion and empathy in witnessing my pain, but there’s no need for worry or concern. Know that in writing about these things, I have been relieved of their burden even before you’ve read the words. When I say writing is a catharsis, I mean it – it’s not merely a platitude, but a purging of the ills that lie within me. It’s when I stop writing about these things you may have cause for concern.

TL;DR: No tl;dr for you. Read the post.

Uncategorized

Books as Drugs

Posted on June 23, 2015 by Janet

I woke up this morning and tried to meditate for a bit. My mind landed on M, my ex, and shook me completely out of my meditation. I sat on the bed with my knees pulled to my chest, leaning my back against the wall, and tried to just be present. Spiritual teachers offer that we find perfect joy and wholeness in Being when we simply give our full and focused attention to the present moment. Eckhart Tolle says “As soon as you honor the present moment, all unhappiness and struggle dissolve, and life begins to flow with joy and ease.” Suffice it to say I’m not there yet.

I have so many thoughts running through my head right now. Questions, really. Like, do I really need to try to be present, or should I just sink into my despair and loneliness and sadness? If it’s only through deep pain and disillusionment that we find freedom, then why should I fight the pain I feel? The fear? The anxiety? Why not sink into it, wallow in it, let it consume me so that I might come out on the other end enlightened? Isn’t that what happened to Eckhart Tolle?

I’ve been reading a lot lately. I really love books. Love them. I get totally engrossed in them, I eat up the concepts put forth, I admire the author’s ability to see and speak truth and to do so artfully and poetically. But…

There’s a desperate grasping in my hunger for books, in my need to lose myself in the pages. I realized yesterday that books are just another of my drugs, another distraction, another way to escape the present moment. And it’s not the books that are the problem, but my voracious consumption of them. It occurred to me that I need to put the books aside and get to living. But, I don’t know what it means to live. I don’t know what I should be doing instead.

I’ve often lamented my seeming laziness, my lack of motivation to do much at all. I look at family members who fill their days pursuing hobbies and interests and I admire and envy both their interests and their active pursuit of them. I was in Knoxville a couple months ago visiting friends and attended a pecha kucha event at which several UT Knoxville professors gave short talks on their research in the pecha kucha format. During their talks, I was taken by the passion some of them had for, what seemed to me, the most obscure things. For example, my former professor gave a talk on Nabokov, who’s first love was not fiction writing (Nabokov authored the book Lolita, among others) but the scientific classification of butterflies. Nabokov was a scientist who was obsessed with butterfly genitalia as a means of classifying butterflies, believing genitalia to evolve more slowly than other body parts and therefore to offer the most accurate means to classification. He would sketch intricately detailed drawings of different butterfly genitalia. This is what he loved. This was his passion. Any my professor’s passion is studying Nabokov. Another professor gave a talk on his passion, falconry. Falconry. Did you know falconry is still a thing? It’s still huge in the Middle East, the home of falconry. They have falconry conferences.

I thought two things about these people and their obsessive and eccentric passions: 1 – Wow, that’s weird, and 2 – I would gladly be a “weirdo” if it meant being that passionate about anything, even butterfly genitalia. I envied them their passions. Envied. They get up and go to work in the morning because they want to, because they can’t wait to see what they’ll discover next. I would give anything to feel that kind of drive, to have something I do because that’s just what I do. Because it just is.

I don’t have that, though. I don’t have a passion. Or, perhaps more accurately, I haven’t discovered it yet, or maybe I discovered it long ago and ignored it and eventually forgot about it. I do the things I do because…well…I have to do something, right? Reading is something I do when I don’t have anything else to do, or anything else that I want to do. But it’s also something I do to distract myself from my dissatisfaction with my own life, to escape “reality,” like a drug. When I had this realization last night, that I use books to distract myself from life, I wondered if perhaps my problem is not that I do too little, but that I do too much – constantly finding new distractions to pull myself away from the present moment.

In talking about the setting and pursuing of external goals, Eckhart Tolle says “there may be things to be attained or acquired…[but] neither your happiness nor your sense of self depends on the outcome…Everything is honored, but nothing matters [emph. mine].” Nothing matters. It’s not that I find that statement depressing, because I don’t. On the contrary, it resonates deeply with me. I’ve never found much meaning in things others find their personal identity in, such as nationalistic pride, sports fanaticism, religious affiliation, political affiliation, race/ethnicity, child rearing, or work, even in a so-called “helping” field. But, if nothing matters, why do anything?

I know, I know, I sound like an adolescent. Am I really still asking “why am I here?” Shouldn’t I have moved on with living already? I can’t help it. It’s just where I am right now. I’m just trying to accept it and, perhaps through accepting it, move past it.

I wish to just sit here, doing nothing, just being, until I feel my calling. I don’t want to talk to anyone, I don’t want to do anything, I don’t want to go anywhere. It strikes me that this is perhaps not the best approach, but I am reminded “If not here, where? If not now, when?” I’m just trying to accept it for what it is. I don’t really understand myself why I’m going to Rio, and that not knowing breeds a fear in me and makes me feel like maybe I don’t want to go at all. Another part of me thinks it will be good to have something in my life that propels me out in to the world – dance classes to go to. But, that still feels pointless.

Tolle says the reason dare devils do what they do is because the extreme risks they take force them into the now, they can’t let their minds stray for even a moment, and that focused attention on the present moment brings exhilaration. I think that’s why I like dancing so much. When it’s a really good dance, I’m totally present-moment focused. Dancing with phenomenal dancers, leads who channel the music flawlessly into their movement, my mind doesn’t even have the chance to stray. You find yourself in a state of no-mind. You find God in those moments.

I guess that’s why we do what we do – to find God. Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi would call it finding “flow.” Tolle would call it finding the now. Others would call it simply Being or Love. It’s not about the intended outcome, it’s simply about being absorbed in the doing. And not just being absorbed in the doing, but being the doing. Being. “The dancer is the dance,” as the Buddhist saying goes. “Work is love made visible,” says Khalil Gibran; and if it’s not, then it’s work that isn’t worth doing. Miley Cyrus even recorded a song about it when she was still Hannah Montana – “The Climb.”

I started rereading Khalil Gibran’s “The Prophet” last night. Khalil Gibran speaks the truth so beautifully and eloquently and poetically. I am moved by his words and so grateful for his having shared them with the world. I think I could spend a lifetime elaborating on each of the statements in that one little book alone, how each one has manifested in my life. I was especially glad to have picked it up last night, just days before my own departure, and to read what the author has to say about the hero’s departing from the city of Orphalese for home – not just departing from physical locations, but from psychological attachments, as well.

Not without a wound in the spirit shall I leave this city. Long were the days of pain I have spent within its walls, and long were the nights of aloneness; and who can depart from his pain and his aloneness without regret? Too many fragments of the spirit have I scattered in these streets, and too many are the children of my longing that walk naked among these hills, and I cannot withdraw from them without a burden and an ache…The sea that calls all things unto her calls me, and I must embark. For to stay, though the hours burn in the night, is to freeze and crystallize and be bound in a mould. Fain I would take with me all that is here. But how shall I? A voice cannot carry the tongue and the lips that give it wings. Alone must it seek the ether. And alone and without his nest shall the eagle fly across the sun.

-Khalil Gibran, The Prophet

TL;DR: Books are my drugs. This is my brain on books. Awaiting my calling with impatience and anxiety.

Uncategorized

The Unknown Approaches

Posted on June 20, 2015 by Janet

Being back in Portland, the full weight of my reality hit me. This is my last stop before I leave for Rio. Yesterday, when I was still in Seattle, it was easy not to think about what was coming up. After all, I still had to come back to Portland – first things first, you know? Let me get back to Portland, and then I’ll worry about what comes next. Well…I’m in Portland now. There’s no ignoring it anymore.

I no longer have an actual home – all my stuff is in storage, save my giant suitcase. I’m in the process of selling my car. I have no income, only my savings. I’m leaving the country in 4 days and I don’t know yet when I’ll be back. I don’t really know what my life looks like at all 3 weeks from today. I mean, I have ideas, but no firm plans. When you go on vacation, it’s easy to relax and enjoy yourself because you know you have a home base to go back to. You have a home, a familiar life, and you know when you’re returning to it. I don’t have that. This isn’t vacation for me. This is my life, and it’s not at all familiar.

This is what I wanted. I wanted to be more free, less rigid, more open to come-what-may. I still want this. But, I’m not used to it, this feeling of not knowing what tomorrow brings. I haven’t learned yet how to just be with it, to just wait and see, to just trust that whatever tomorrow brings is exactly what I need. “What’s going to happen?” my mind keeps asking itself. And all it gets in return is “I don’t know.”

I feel anxious – my mind races and my stomach is in knots. I feel confusion – I don’t know what to do next. I feel dread – my limbs feel weak and I feel a strong desire to curl up into a ball, hide, disappear, stop time for a minute while I catch my breath and figure it out.

But, there’s nothing to figure out. This is it. This is all there is. All the time in the world wouldn’t change that. Tomorrow, there will be something new. But, that’s tomorrow, that’s not for me to know today.

The not knowing leaves a sense of emptiness inside, and I feel the draw to the old familiar ways of coping with these feelings. Food is a big one for me. I get caught up in my emotions and feel an overwhelming need to eat, to fill up the hole inside me with food. When this happens, I eat quickly and mindlessly, not even really paying to attention to what I’m eating or that I’m eating, certainly not enjoying the food, until I’m physically full, but the emptiness inside is still there. Another is withdrawing into my mind, where I dwell on negative thoughts, feeding the emotional fire. Another is sloth – laziness, doing nothing. Another is wine. To an extent, another is shopping. I should be glad I have no place to put anything new so I don’t waste the money I have on things I don’t need to fill up holes that can’t be filled with physical things.

There’s nothing for it but to learn to live with the not knowing. Knowing what tomorrow would bring has seldom made me happy in the past; on the contrary, it usually made me miserable because I didn’t like what I knew tomorrow would bring. That’s why I traded in the known for the unknown.

And I’m glad I did it. I’m grateful for everything and everyone that played a role in precipitating this change, and I’m thankful for the resources I have available to me to back this endeavor. But it’s hard, folks. It’s scary to be walking into uncharted territory, able to see only a few feet ahead as I blaze a new trail. I just have so much to learn.

TL;DR: Still learning how to embrace the unknown, still struggling with my fear of it.

Travelogue

Seattle/Victoria

Posted on June 20, 2015 by Janet

I arrived in Seattle on Tuesday afternoon. My AirBnB was located in Capitol Hill, which turned out to be a fantastic location. It was just a few minutes drive from downtown and half a mile from local blues dancing.

I really only spent about a day exploring Seattle. I walked around the Seattle Center, the grounds for the 1962 World’s Fair, that today houses the Space Needle, the Science Museum, Key Arena, the EMP Sci-fi/pop culture museum, and lots of theaters and galleries and such.

EMP Museum. Frank Gehry is the architect. This building is intriguing and curious and I absolutely loved it. I couldn’t get a half-way decent pic of it myself, so I’m linking to this one I found.

After walking around the Seattle Center, I did a duck tour:

Duck tours are those amphibious vehicles you find in waterfront cities, full of tourists honking on duck whistles shaped like duck bills. They’re very silly. But, they’re a great way see what there is to see in a new town and learn things you might not have known otherwise. For example, did you know that Seattle’s waterfront area was raised up back in the late 1800s/early 1900s by some 30 feet or so? Apparently, old Seattle still sits underneath the streets of today and you can take walking tours down there. This I did not know, and now I have something to do next time I go back.

Hands down, the coolest thing I saw in Seattle was the International Fountain:

International Fountain at the Seattle Center.

It’s this huge crater with a giant metallic half-sphere in the middle that spouts out water several stories high. There are speakers all around the outside of the crater that play old rock ballads (and other music?) and the fountain’s dance is coordinated to that music. And it’s free. Anyone can come during the summertime and enjoy playing in the fountain or just watching the show. I think this is a fantastic service provided by the city.

The next day, I took the ferry to Victoria, Canada for a day trip. I was hoping to glimpse some marine wildlife on the ~3-hour ride, but no luck. Victoria is a lovely town, very picturesque, and you can tell there’s a lot of money there. I did one of those hop-on/hop-off open-air bus tours to see the city, and the guide said Victoria is known for it’s gardens and as a destination for honeymooners and retirees, or “garden beds, newly weds, and nearly deads,” as the joke went. One of the reasons it’s such a popular destination is because it has the mildest weather in all of Canada – it rarely gets below freezing there.

I got some noodles in Chinatown and walked around the inner harbor and Empress Hotel before heading over to Beacon Hill Park.

Victoria's Chinatown gate - the oldest Chinatown in Canada. — Victoria’s Chinatown gate – the oldest Chinatown in Canada.

Empress Hotel, perhaps the best-known landmark in Victoria.

The parliament building. Beautiful flower baskets hung from lamp posts all over the city.

Victoria’s Beacon Hill Park is a large, beautiful park with lots of walking paths, ponds, birds, and a variety of plant life. I really enjoyed walking around there. They also have a petting zoo in the park, which I was drawn to because of the peacocks:

They had at least a dozen male peacocks and a few females, as well, and they were so colorful and beautiful. They must be a different species of peacocks than what you find in US zoos. They were everywhere, and every once in a while one of them would start with this screeching caw and the others would respond and the whole place would be filled with the sound of a dozen peacocks screaming at each other from all over the complex.

It started raining at that point, and it was getting on the in the afternoon, so I hopped on the next bus that came along and let it wind me through Victoria once more before I went back to the ferry terminal. On the ride home, clouds hung low in the sky over the water, with flat bottoms as if they were sitting on a clear surface, like a drop ceiling that you could reach up and touch if you just stretched a little further.

What I liked best about both Victoria and Seattle were the parks, especially the variety of plant life. There are so many different kinds of fir trees! Tall and short, fat and skinny, thick and sparse, in every combination. Some were huge, tall, with crooked branches like arthritic limbs. Others had spindly branches that just drooped down limply under the weight of the thick, copious needles. Others looked like big bushes, with needles so thick and tight together you couldn’t see the trunk or any of the branches. Other had branches that sagged down in the middle but turned upward at the ends in a U shape, as if held up by marionette strings. It was beautiful and fascinating.

I’m back in Portland now, looking forward to seeing more of this lovely city. I’m also in last-minute prep mode as I prepare my car for sale and purge whatever I can before I fly out of here in just 4 short days.

TL;DR: Went to Seattle, Victoria. Had fun.

Travelogue

Oregon

Posted on June 15, 2015 by Janet

I made it to Oregon on Saturday. I took the 101 up from Santa Rosa, the scenic route. I got to enjoy the redwoods, the northern California coast replete with Humboldt fog, and several tiny towns I might never have known existed otherwise.

I stayed with my cousin in Springfield rather than drive the extra 2 hours into Portland. It was quite the change of pace! My cousin’s property is 13 acres in Oregon logging country, practically on top of a hill overlooking a gorgeous valley. The gravel drive up to their house from the paved road is a mile long. They have ducks and horses, and they’ll have goats soon. It was a wonderful detour from the city.

(CLICK PHOTO TO VIEW FULL SIZE) The horse pasture. See the gorgeous blue mountains across the valley?

Portland lives up to the hype, folks. It is such a beautiful city, even from the highway. If you haven’t been, it straddles the Willamette River, with gorgeous green hills on the west and flatter on the east side. The Willamette is a big river, not unlike the Thames or Seine that run through London and Paris, with lots of different, beautiful bridges that cross it. It is so green, everywhere. I’m staying in the NE part of town, east of the river, in a section called Irvington. It looks a lot like Pasadena, actually, with the tree-lined streets and beautiful turn-of-the-century homes. The weather is GORGEOUS. The people are NICE. They actually look at you and nod, wave, or say hello in acknowledgement of your existence – I didn’t know anyone did that anymore!

Portland's Steel Bridge - probably my favorite bridge in the city. — (CLICK PHOTO TO VIEW FULL SIZE) Portland’s Steel Bridge – probably my favorite bridge in the city.

I was emailing a friend today about my travels when I realized I haven’t stayed more than 3 nights in one place since I left Pasadena almost 2 weeks ago. The constant packing and driving is starting to weigh on me. I’m off to Seattle tomorrow, but I’ve decided to skip Vancouver this time around. Instead, I’ll come back to Portland and spend 5 WHOLE nights here before I fly off to Brazil. 5 nights in one place sounds like a dream to me right now 🙂

Uncategorized

Santa Rosa

Posted on June 12, 2015 by Janet

We got back to Santa Rosa on Wednesday afternoon, and I spent a very lazy day hanging around the house on Thursday. This morning, I decided to get up and go for a run. I got out of the house around a quarter to 9. The sun was warm, but it was still crisp in the shade, and a gentle breeze kissed my skin from time to time. The weather felt divine, arresting in its gloriousness…

I ran through Taylor Mountain Park, just a few-minutes’ walk from the house. I had a turn-around time in mind, but it was so pretty out there I decided to just keep running. The area I ran in today was an open cattle grazing area. I didn’t see any cattle, but I was graced with a visit from a wild turkey. That was fun. I had a similarly lovely run at the Laguna Lake Park Open Space in SLO when I was there last week. There was a herd of about a dozen horses grazing there, and they happened to be coming through an open gate just as I was going through in the other direction. I didn’t get close enough to touch, but was certainly close enough to enjoy their presence. I haven’t been that close to a horse, let alone a herd of horses, in years. It was magical.

While on my run today, my wandering mind conjured up some imaginary future run-ins with people that I hate. Yes, that’s right – hate. I carry around hatred inside me… There are people out there I feel hatred for…

At some point, I became aware of what I was doing, of the fact that my mind had conjured up these people and that even thinking about them evoked a strong, visceral, negative reaction in me. Of course, I don’t wish to feel this way, and I certainly don’t wish to run into one of these people someday and be washed over by a wave of hate I never even saw coming. I was surprised that this feeling would arise at that moment, apropos of nothing, and I was both sucked in by the feeling of hatred – the familiar comfort of feeling justified in my hate – and disturbed by the intensity of my absorption in it.

My first inclination was to analyze the feeling, to try to understand where it came from as a means of dissolving it. Of course, my mind set about trying to rationalize the feeling – why I should feel that way, or why feeling that way made sense, or how I could use that feeling to inform my decision-making. It was a seductive thought, but it was easy enough to put off once I saw it for what it was – rationalizing.

“They” say that, in order to change anything in your life, the first step is to accept the thing as it is. You can’t do anything about a problem that you don’t recognize exists. If you want to fix it, you must first accept that it is. In this case, that meant accepting that I have hatred inside me. It’s tempting to look outside oneself and place the problem out there, on them, but that’s really just a sad delusion. After all, it’s not like hatred of these people is universal, or that my hatred of them is their problem. They don’t suffer from my hatred. The only person who suffers from my hatred is me (and the people who have had to hear me bitch about it over the years). Attempting to place the problem outside myself only denies me the means of fixing the problem, gives those I hate control over my emotional state, and casts me as a victim and them as a perpetrator of some imagined crime. Pretty sick, huh?

One tactic I’ve learned about for dissolving tenacious negative emotions is simply to shine the light of your attention on them. This doesn’t mean analyzing them or thinking about them. It simply means acknowledging them when they arise – accepting that they are – and then focusing your attention on them. So, when I realized I wasn’t going to get anywhere thinking about my hatred, I decided to just pay attention to it, to how it physically felt.

Have you ever paid attention to how your emotions feel physically? I haven’t. The hatred was a pit in my stomach, and as I focused my attention on it, it grew in size and intensity and began to make me nauseous. I was astounded that I’d been carrying this around inside me and didn’t even realize it. I had finished my run at this point and was walking to cool down. I continued to focus my attention on that feeling of hate – that pit in my gut – as I walked back to the house and began stretching. At some point, my attention began to wane and my mind took over, flooding me with mental distractions that made it difficult for me to keep focusing my attention on that pit in my stomach.

Eventually, I lost it. The pit kind of disappeared into whatever dark hole in my psyche it’s been hiding in all this time. I tried to conjure it up later so I could attend to it some more, but that didn’t really work. It’ll rear it’s ugly head again when I’m not expecting it, and I’ll have a new opportunity to focus my attention on the feeling rather than being swept away in the thought…

Tomorrow it’s on to Portland, folks. I’ve really enjoyed my time here with my family, and yet it seems to have gone by in a blur. It’s already over, and I wonder where the past week went. It’s a long drive – 10.5 hours up to Portland with a couple-hour layover in Springfield. Still, I’m excited to see familiar faces, and to meet new ones. Tomorrow, I breach new (for me) territory. We’ll see what new and interesting experiences that brings.

P.S. I learned how to make pesto today. Thanks, Uncle G!

P.P.S. I have my passport AND Brazil visa in hand. Thanks, Cousin S!

TL;DR: Hate rears its ugly head when least expected; off to Portland – looking forward with tears in my eyes.

Uncategorized

Moving Day, Part 2 or Family Fun Time

Posted on June 9, 2015 by Janet

One of the great blessings I saw in choosing to leave my job and hit the road when I did was that I would be up visiting my family in northern California just in time to help one aunt and uncle with their impending move. I had to laugh that, after spending two and half weeks packing up my own apartment, I got to come up here and do it all over again! Joking aside, I was very gratified that the timing worked out so that I could be here to help them. And, no, I’m not just saying that because I know they’re reading this blog.

It’s quite the circus over here. For logistical reasons, my “southern” NorCal aunt and uncle and I are staying here at the “northern” NorCal aunt and uncle’s house while we help them pack up in prep for the move (which will be later this week). Five adults sharing one house in the midst of a move makes for some interesting times. Tensions run high as everyone has their own ideas on what needs to be done when, and how. Everyone’s had to loosen up their boundaries and/or stretch themselves a bit, whether that’s adhering to the way things are done in someone else’s home, or accommodating “guests” who do things differently than one would like or expect in one’s own home – all while trying to pack up and move a household! And then there’s the matter of space and privacy – the luxuries of being alone and not being disturbed don’t really exist here right now. As someone who’s lived alone for the last nearly 7 years and had all the undisturbed alone time they could possibly want, not having that at all has probably been the hardest part for me to deal with. I think it’s a real exercise in patience and acceptance for all of us. And humility. And gratitude.

It’s also REALLY hot here. It’s been in the 90’s each day. The AC broke yesterday, which of course made us all much happier and friendlier toward each other. We did get a bit of a respite today with some clouds and wind, which was very welcome.

Today’s our last day here. We’re heading back in the morning. I keep looking around at all the things that should be in boxes but aren’t and wish we’d been able to get more done. It is what it is, I suppose. This move has been added stress upon plenty of existing stress for everyone involved, so any progress is laudable, really.

All that said, there’s something pretty awesome about sharing one home as a family. Despite the challenges inherent in this temporary pseudo-merging of households, it’s nice to have so many loved ones so near at hand. Preparing meals together, eating together, shopping together, and working together – even just sitting together – are all pretty rare occurrences for us these days, and they are moments to be enjoyed.

TL;DR: Communal living provides cherished family time, offers advanced lessons in patience, flexibility.

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this: