Pretty City
Seattle has a wealth of beautiful views, but I think my favorite is checking out the skyline from West Seattle.
I’m rather fond of this view, too.
Seattle has a wealth of beautiful views, but I think my favorite is checking out the skyline from West Seattle.
I’m rather fond of this view, too.
It was the crumbling bricks that first attracted me to the Georgetown neighborhood of Seattle, then the old signs, store fronts, cafes, bars, and the post-industrial, bohemian vibe. I’d driven through before, and promised myself that I would return with my camera when I had more time.
That was a couple years ago.
Last week, as I was driving around with my husband and daughter, looking for something random, and out of the ordinary, my husband suggested we hit Georgetown again.
Eureka.
As I was ooh-ing and aah-ing over the textures and colors of old bricks, facades, and signs, I stumbled backwards into a parking lot. Then, I turned around to discover the Georgetown Trailer Park Mall.
Random.
Out of the ordinary.
My heart swooned.
A caravan of converted trailers, plying assorted wares from handcrafted jewelry and locally produced art, to vintage furs and grandma’s Corning Ware.
I loved the vibe on this bitterly cold and foggy afternoon. I can’t wait to catch the vibe as the weather warms, and the crowds come out to mingle, at ArtAttack, or during a summer happy hour.
What made your heart swoon this week?
“Just breathe,” I thought, as I sat up all night, listening to the ragged breaths growling and gasping in and out of my feverish little girl. I had plenty of time to contemplate how the most intimate, profound, and intense moments of my life have centered around breath.
I was young when I learned that people could die in their sleep, about 5, I think. I would sneak out of bed in the middle of the night to do bed checks, making sure my family was safe and well. The snorers were easy. I could listen for my parents’ snoring from my bed. My grandfather snored, too, but not Grandma. I’d watch her low profile for signs of movement, but I had to be stealthy; she was a light sleeper, and still had mothers’ ears. I’d check on each of my brothers, as well, before I could let myself settle down, and go back to sleep.
When I got older, and couldn’t sleep, I’d sync my breathing with that of my parents’ snoring. It worked better than warm milk for sending me off to dreamland. Something about that snore meant “situation normal,” and the cadence was hypnotic and soothing.
Sometimes, I find myself in situations where I hold my breath. My large family stood around my brother’s bed in the ICU, each of us reaching out to touch him; a hand, a leg, I held him near his left elbow. The doctor turned off the life support, and I held my breath, hoping for a miracle. I held my breath for so long, but he was gone.
A few years later, in another ICU of another hospital, I held my breath as my mother was extubated after weeks on a ventilator. This time, it worked. It wasn’t easy, but she took a breath, and then another. Eventually, she made eye contact, and squeezed back with the hand I was holding. And soon, she was back to her old, talkative self.
I exhaled when my husband said, “I do.”
I held my breath through the frequent, and impossibly long pauses in my father’s breathing during his last weeks.
My breath gets away from me during a panic attack; I often hold my breath when I’m hopeful, and I use my breath to blow away eyelashes, and blow out candles to make a wish. Exercise, excitement, engagement, even lovemaking are all tied up in breath. Breath is life.
“Breathe,” my husband coaxed, as he counted through my contractions.
“Breathe,” I silently willed the air in and out of my newborn’s body.
“Breathe,” I commanded an empty room, wishing I could send my strength to my husband, who was in the midst of a medical crisis in Istanbul. “We can deal with anything else, as long as you keep breathing.”
I think of my newborn niece, just 3 weeks old, and she’s spent most of that time connected to machines that help her breathe, or breathe for her. Each time I pray for her to breathe, I imagine her mama has prayed a thousand times more. And she is improving, needing less and less assistance each day. Enough equipment has been removed now for her to cry – how beautiful is the sound of a baby’s cry? Especially after this.
Our breath is completely tied up in crying. And laughing.
I’ve experienced joy so overwhelming that I momentarily forgot to breathe. I’ve experienced pain so intense the entire world disappeared. There was nothing left but me, and the pain, and my breath. The slightest movement had to be orchestrated; rest on inhale, exert on exhale. Each breath is painful, yet each breath is progress.
Sometimes all we have left is our breath. Sometimes breath is all we need. One more breath, to take us to one more moment. Inhale. Exhale. Repeat. A slow, quiet meditation on now, until our strength returns, or a renewed hope, even if just to get through another day, and we’re able to slowly start incorporating the rest of the world back into our reality.
If the only thing left to do is breathe, then breathe.
As long as you have breath, you have this moment.
P.S. The little angel is feeling much better, and had more energy than me today. As usual.
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P.P.S. BlogHer selected me as a Voice of the Year 2013 for this piece.
3-year-olds say the darnedest things. For instance, my 3-year-old said:
“Dammit.” When I turned to look at her, she responded in her most matter-of-fact voice, “I say that now.“
She said a lot this past year, most of which I have already forgotten. There were a few zingers that stood out for me, like
“I’m beautiful and frustrated.“
and
“NO! I not contrary!“
When I had a case of the blahs, she said “Mommy, you can dance if you want to.”
When I told her, “I love you more than pork chops,” she corrected me, saying “No, Mommy. You love me more than chocolate.” And she was right.
I asked her why her crayons were all over the place. She replied, “I was using them as fairy dust.”
One day, she informed me that “Hide and seek is my favorite, favorite game. Can we play hide and seek?“
“Sure,” I replied. So she walked over to the keyboard and started playing it.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“We need some hiding music.“
And then, I’m pretty sure I heard her say “Duh!” under her breath.
After the 647,251,986th time of being asked for stickers, I said, “I’m all out of stickers. Stop asking me for stickers.”
“Mommy, I need something that’s a little bit sticky on the back and has a picture on the front.“
When we were shopping for Christmas gifts at the mall, she named off the type of store as we walked past each one… “shoe store, jewelry store, hat store…” then, as we walked past Victoria’s Secret, she said “balloon store…“
and then one night as I was tucking her in, my sweet little girl said “When you’re done giving me hugs and kisses, I’m going to need more hugs and kisses.”
I can’t wait to see what she comes up with next.
What are you’re favorite kid sayings?
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A look back at the year that was.
After a year of being very self-protective, guarded, and often feeling buried, in the dark, or underground, my word for 2013 is BLOOM.
That’s where it’s at – it’s time to stretch wide and soak in the rain and sun and everything else that comes at me.