This is my current list...
I drove away from my home in Portland, Oregon last night. Anthony and I finished painting the trim, watered the new fruit trees, drank our last cup of coffee from Extracto with Leanne, dropped off the keys to the new tenant, and were on the road in time for rush hour. We watched the beautiful sunset over long fields before the major climbing hills into the night. We slept at a rest stop, hitting the road by 5:15 this morning. Before 8am we were both working at our regular Shasta coffee shop, Wassayaks.
People keep saying that Shasta is "The Root Chakra" of the world. I have no idea how or why this is. I'm open to be educated on this one you guys.
It's Friday and we both work remote. We wake up at 5am PT and get a huge start on our day, getting as much done as we can before everyone else wakes up. This is harder for me because my team is in Israel, 10 hours ahead of Pacific time.
When we drove away from Portland last night, it's not for a vacation, it's for another year of travel and education. I'm immediately reminded how it feels to live on the road. How it feels to have no idea where you're sleeping tonight. To have no idea where you're driving tomorrow. To sleep in the woods. To stay up late playing cards until you can't see them anymore and go to bed. To wake up in the dark and watch the sunrise from the windows of our moving home. To meet strangers living the same way. To realize that you all know the same people digitally. To find them in person. To visit family and friends you may never otherwise "have the time" to.
I feel at home again.
It’s silly to pretend we don’t feel an aching for our past, isn’t it?
Yet, we do it all the time. I do.
Not because of regret. Not because I’d prefer it over the present. Not even for a freedom that “growing up” seems to trade in without permit. With no presence of reason at all, I feel this way today.
My immediate response - seek reason. I’m grounded when I feel rational. Which is ironic. "Maybe the seasons and Thanksgiving have made me nostalgic for the magic of my own childhood", I think to myself, buried in blankets by a fire I built with real wood (once potential-rich christmas trees?). But what’s reason have to do with it anyways?
The craving seeps out of a quiet, lonely realization that things will never unfold and feel as they have. No matter what. No matter how many years the tradition lives, the second, the third, fiftieth time will be created anew. We can mourn the loss or invite the unknowing, though I’ve always found it easier to relate with what I've known. It's not specific to the holidays but it arises with reflection of loved ones who have delivered me here. Ones who are less obviously with me - through distance or death.
My second response to this feeling is to qualify it. “I’m really very happy”, “things are great!”. These statements are both true and irrelevant.
Maybe it's nothing more than a slippery habit. Dwelling on the beauty of the past quietly removes us from the present, and what a comfortable place for our lingering. The past, a story we create and tell ourselves. How beautiful that time was. How in love we were. How magical that Christmas morning felt. How loved we once were. How brave. How clever. How spontaneous. How free.
Another way to avoid the present. Another craving to feed. Another doubt to fuel.