Sweet Spot

Wow! Look at all the mountains down there. Is that snow? They're covered with snow?!

Which one is Mount Rainier? Can you see it from here?

There are so many trees. Evergreens! Everywhere looks like a forest!

Look at all that water. I think it's the Pacific Ocean. No, wait. There's more water. And more! And islands?!

* * * * * 

Flying home gives me a very special feeling. 

I love to travel and I rarely get homesick, but I'll gladly confess that when the pilot announces that we are beginning our descent into Seattle, I feel my spirit soar. Pressing my forehead against the window - I always choose a window seat for just this moment - I drink in the unique beauty that makes the Puget Sound such a magnificent place to live. As we swoop low over the city, familiar landmarks fall into place and I marvel that this magical place is my home.

But even more, I love to listen to fellow passengers who are clearly not from here. This week, as I sailed in from the heartland city of Columbus, Ohio, I overheard the reactions of several travelers who have obviously never been up to our little corner of paradise before, and I delighted in their amazement.

And who wouldn't be amazed? After five hours' travel over Midwestern farmers' fields and half a continent of brown, just when it would be perfectly reasonable for a newcomer to think that the land had simply run out of beauty, everything changes. A considerable range of snow-covered mountains ripple out to the north and south; the green conifer forests of the western Cascades sparkle like gems below. Then come the lakes - long, lean Sammamish and Washington, tiny Union - and the shimmering Sound itself, dotted with islands and stretching wide to the Olympic Peninsula where more forests and more mountains unfold as far as the eye can see. Like stumbling upon an enormous secret garden, or an oasis in the middle of a desert, the effect is pure enchantment.

One afternoon a few years back, among a plane full of lucky people landing on a picture perfect summer afternoon, I heard a dad speaking in an awed whisper to his ten-ish year old son, "Look! Mount Rainier is out. That means we'll have good luck on our visit." And though I'd never heard such a claim before, I couldn't help but think he was right. To land in the presence of that massive yet delicately sculpted, snow-covered lady who so often hides her face in the clouds certainly must signal her gracious welcome.

While Rainier did not grace us with her presence this time, my fellow passengers and I enjoyed our dreamy descent into the Puget Sound, as sweet a spot on this planet as you will ever find. 

^ Looking west at Lake Sammamish in the foreground, with a little peek of Lake Washington and Mercer Island between the clouds. 

^ Looking back on Lake Washington toward the east, with a delicious view of the 520 floating bridge and at the bottom of the scene, Husky Stadium and part of the University of Washington campus. 

^ The golden hour of the setting sun - which we had been enjoying for five hours since we left Columbus - brought a special glow to the final moments of our flight and sweet satisfaction to my entire trip. 

* * * * *

Read the story of my first trip since Covid to visit my daughter in Ohio, told from finish to start. 

Last Leg

Sweet Spot

Plant Babies

A Sunday Afternoon On The Lawn At The Scioto River

Reading:The Paper Palace

Reading: Untamed

Reading: The Vanishing Half

Deer

Last Leg

The last leg of my long trip home. I loved every minute of this ride. 

When I was twenty one years old, I moved away from my country lake childhood home and the luscious green gardens of my university to the nitty gritty city of Chicago. And promptly, I became a public transit lady.

What a life. I loved hopping from bus to L train to even a full scale commuter train to weave my way around the city. For a few dollars a day, I could get to wherever I wanted to go, hanging by a strap in a dark subway on a sweaty summer afternoon, snapping a Wall Street Journal out in front of me for a nice browse through the paper on my way to the office, or giggling with my tipsy girlfriends as we headed home together after Friday happy hour. Even after several years went by and I finally bought a car, I left it parked on the street all week long. My good ol' Grand Prix was for interstate travel; I roamed the city on public transit.

How rudely I was awakened when I moved to Seattle. Back in 1986, the city's public transit system consisted of a handful of buses and an underfunded dream. Patiently, I waited and voted and took advantage of the puny local bus system whenever I could. Many, many years passed.

Slowly, inexorably, Seattle's Link light rail system came to life. The first Sound Transit cars began to rumble along tracks near the airport in 2003, and have gradually hiccuped north over the years. When the Northgate station opened in October, 2021, bringing Line 1 all the way from the airport to within striking distance of my house, I felt a seismic shift. 

And so it was that on my return home from Columbus this week, 

I jumped off my plane, 

hauled myself through baggage claim, 

across the sky bridge, 

along the edge of the parking garage, 

and down the hall to the light rail platform. 

As I stepped out into the cool night air to await the next northbound train, I breathed deep and sighed with contentment. Once again, I've become a public transit lady and the city is mine to roam. 

* * * * *

Read the story of my first trip since Covid to visit my daughter in Ohio, told from finish to start. 

Last Leg

Sweet Spot

Plant Babies

A Sunday Afternoon On The Lawn At The Scioto River

Reading:The Paper Palace

Reading: Untamed

Reading: The Vanishing Half

Deer

A Saturday Afternoon At The Franklin Park Conservatory

You breathe. 

You sense yourself slowing down. 

Choosing to linger. 

Not wanting to do or think or feel anything in particular. 

Just a time to be in this place. 

You look for a place to sit. 

Put down your bag. 

Look up, down, all around. 

And you breathe. 

E A S T E R

Happy Easter. He is risen!

Today, along with other Christians, I celebrate the resurrection of Jesus. After spending three days dead, he emerges from his tomb with an remarkable message: “Hey, everyone! Death is not the end; it’s the beginning of a new life that’s even better than the first and you are going to absolutely love it.”

And while I joyfully celebrate this good news, I get even more excited when I consider the bigger picture here. The Easter story reminds me that our God is a God of incredible power, outlandish creativity, and a mind-blowing capacity to surprise us. He doesn’t wait until the end of our earthly lives to knock us off our feet; God can use any minute of any day to draw us closer to him. All we need to do is pay attention and watch to see what he’s doing. It’s almost always something good. 

So as I enjoy my Easter festival, I’ll certainly reflect o on the gift of eternal life. But my mind will drift beyond that ancient tomb to this very day, and I’ll roll back the stones of my own limited thinking to watch for God’s cleverness playing out in my day-to-day life. 

He is risen indeed. 

Groovy Plant Ranch

Was it groovy?

Very. 

Did they have plants?

Thousands, for indoors and out. 

Was it an actual ranch? 

Um, no. More of a micro farm.

But after months of anticipating my first trip to the Groovy Plant Ranch, nestled into a cozy pocket of woods in the great agricultural heartland of central Ohio, I am charmed. In the midst of Covid, I ran across the GPR on Instagram and have been dying to visit in person. Today was the day that my daughter and I - along with hordes of other plant-loving Columbusites willing to make the half-hour drive north of the city - strolled through their plant-laden greenhouses and inhaled the pure grooviness of every nook and cranny. 

The Groovy Plant Ranch was well worth the wait. 

Anatomy of a Panic Attack

Click.

With a subtle swipe of my hand while wiping a fresh coat of stain on the inside of my closet door, I inadvertently push the door shut.

And since I have diligently removed the door knobs but left the latching mechanism in place, I know in an instant what has happened.

I've locked myself into my closet. 

The scene of the crime.

Well, no matter, I calmly console myself. Thankfully, there are plenty of people at home who can come to my rescue. 

And sure enough, with my playful call of "Halp! Someone come halp me! I'm locked in my closet!" I hear footsteps in the hall and my bedroom door squeak open.

My fourth-born has heeded my cry.

"Just grab a screwdriver and jimmy it into the latch. It should spring free," I confidently advise.

But after a few seconds of silent futzing, my daughter speaks. 

"Uh, I'm going to go get Dad. I'll be right back."

Very well then. 

Might as well put my time to good use, right? So I keep on with my project, dipping my cloth into the can of stain and wiping in onto the thirsty wood. So satisfying. 

Hmm. Interesting, I think. This is a slightly claustrophobic situation but I feel absolutely no need to panic. 

In a flash, the memory of a truly traumatic claustrophobia-induced panic attack sweeps through my mind

I am in Hyderabad, India, visiting an ancient Muslim monument, and the crush of humans pushing toward the only exit - an extremely narrow set of worn, uneven stairs that spirals four floors down through a tiny turret - sends me spinning out of control. Thankfully, we find a worker who allows us to bypass the crowds and slip out through a different, employees-only turret staircase. This beautiful angel not only rescues me but holds my hand as she leads me and my companions through the darkness to safety.

You can read the full story of my Indian panic attack here.

But of course, this scenario is entirely different, I encourage myself. I can wait here in the safety and comfort of my cozy closet indefinitely as my rescuers make their plan.

Everything is just fine.

* * * * *

That's when the fumes hit me.

With reasonable ventilation, I don't mind the smell of stain or varnish; to the contrary, the pungent chemicals invigorate me with good project vibes.

But shut tight in my closet, the vapors immediately pack a more powerful punch.

My adrenaline kicks in. Hard. A melody of malaise begins to jangle in my mind.

I strain to hear the staccato of footsteps on the stairs. Or voices of concern echoing from below. But I hear only silence.

Ok, slow down, I tell myself. My rescuers will be here any second and set me free in a snap. 

But what if they aren't?

My rational brain attempts to interrupt this symphony of the sympathetic nervous system.

Come on, there are plenty of ways to solve this problem. They can take the door off the hinges. 

I glance up at the door frame to note that the screws to the hinges are tucked inside the closed hinge, completely inaccessible to humans on either side of the door. 

They can pull the entire latching mechanism out of the door.

Uh, sure, if the door is open. But with the door shut, the latching mechanism is lodged firmly in the side jamb. 

Well, at the very least, they can give me a glass of water while they take a sledge hammer to the door. 

And as I glance at the pitifully small crack at the bottom of the door, my worries reach a full-blown crescendo.

* * * * *

Trying desperately to gain control of my runaway brain, I seek any rational action. Improvisationally, I put my face to the floor, hoping to catch any current of fresh air that might be wafting around down there. 

But all I smell is the freshly stained door. 

My mind spins. 

Pure, raw panic surges through me. 

I sit back on my heels for what might have been an hour, might have been ten seconds. 

Then I hear my husband and my daughter at the door. 

"Please, put the fan up close to the door. I need fresh air." 

"We're getting you out of there right now," my husband replies. 

My beautiful rescue. 

Click.

The door swings open.

I step out into the fresh air, and my panic floats away like the fading notes of a melancholy song.

I Pray For Ukraine

"If I fall, pick up the flag, kiss it, and keep on going." -Omar Torrijos Herrera 

"A true flag is not something you can really design. A true flag is torn from the souls of the people."

 -Gilbert Baker

I pray for Ukraine.

I pray for Russian guns to fall silent. 

I pray for missiles to lie still.

I pray for invading soldiers to turn around and go home.

I pray for the streets to ring with the beautiful sound of silence.

I pray for the people to come out

From the places where they have been trapped.

I pray for food and water,

First aid and warm clothes.

I pray for hugs and tears of relief and joy.

I pray for electricity and charging cords.

I pray for phone calls to loved ones.

I pray for blue skies and sunshine.

I pray for peace. 

I pray for Ukraine.

* * * * *

Glory to Ukraine! Glory to the heroes! More stories about an unjust war:

I Pray For Ukraine

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