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Arrivals and Departures

Arrivals and Departures

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A trip to the airport in predawn darkness, the only illumination (as we grew closer) the ominous glow of many tail lights. The departure lanes were so backed up that we scooted into Arrivals and found the way clear. All the passengers had to do was take the escalator one floor up to check their bags. 

I’ve been thinking since then about arrivals and departures, how closely they are bound. In our case, this morning, inseparably. But they are always linked: coming and going, giving and taking, opening and closing. 

It’s not quite as simple as “what goes up must come down,” but for every joyous embrace of welcome at the airport, there is the bittersweet hug at the end of the visit, dear ones flying back across the country. I’ll be counting the days until they return and I can head to Arrivals again — this time, for real.

Jackson

Jackson

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When I’m falling asleep now, I imagine I’m on Jackson, one of my favorite streets in Port Townsend.

I make my way down the hill from my house at the foot of Artillery Hill in Fort Worden, stroll along the brow, listen to the surf surging below.

From there it’s up one hill and then another. But at the top of that second hill, huffing and puffing, I see all of Admiralty Inlet spread out before me.

I snap photos. And in fact, I snapped plenty of them. But they never did it justice, never captured the openness and the light.

No matter — it’s in my mind now, and in my bones and sinews, too.

Beacon

Beacon

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Fall is farther along here at home than it was out west. Only the Japanese maple is still brilliant with color. I’ve written about it before. 

Today, it seems a souvenir, a memento from the trip. For so many years my writing has been what I do around the edges of things, something I slipped into the day wherever it might fit. 

The last three weeks have given me an idea of what it’s like when writing comes first. It becomes a glowing thing, a beacon, the last tree gleaming. 

Eastward

Eastward

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The question is, would you know it if you didn’t know it, know that here in Seattle you’re near the western edge of this wide continent?

I always think I can tell — something in the quality of the light or the casualness of the architecture or the philosophies of the people. 

But it’s probably just what I overlay on the place, based on visits and attitudes (dreams) about the West Coast I’ve had since I was as a kid. 

This afternoon I fly home, take the eastward journey, which is often faster. It’s the prevailing westerlies that make it so, but today I think it will be the magnet of home pulling me back where I belong.

Rainier

Rainier

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Because I’m a visitor here, the mountains still surprise me. They appear mirage-like on the horizon, a gift after a hard climb or a long walk. 

So it was yesterday with Mount Rainier, shimmering peacefully above Lake Washington in Seward Park. I turned my head … and there it was. 

It wasn’t the clearest day or the bluest sky. But the mountain showed itself anyway. 

Fresh

Fresh

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On a last walk before leaving, I find a new path to the brow.

Places are like that. Just when you think you know them, they open up and offer more. 

Yesterday I strolled out to Battery Stoddard, one of several battlements at Fort Worden. Only this time, I was on top of it rather than below. Seeing it — and the coastline — from a fresh angle. Kind of sums up the residency, too.

I write this post from a little room in Seattle, continuing the work I began two weeks ago. I left Fort Worden with two overriding thoughts: keep it going and keep it fresh. And that’s what I intend to do.

Worth It

Worth It

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By the time I finished writing yesterday it was mid-afternoon and the rain was settling in. What else to do but take the walk anyway. It was my last full day in this marvelous place. 

So I ventured out into the drizzle, plugging into a chipper playlist and heading up the hill, the way I’ve started most every walk since I’ve been here.

It was the perfect northwest experience: trees were dripping, waves were pounding, gulls were soaring — and some brave soul was wind surfing.

I returned home a bit damp but no worse for the wear. I knew the walk would be worth it — and it was. 

Fort Word (en)

Fort Word (en)

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In the beginning was the Word, and the word was a Fort,

a peninsula, open to the sea.

Pilgrims seeking vistas and space

scale battlements, walk gunnery lines,

marvel at the madrona, her red skins shining.

We climb steps for inlet and strait, 

whitecaps, a lighthouse on the point. 

Wandering trails.

Reading verses in the vault.

Looking west to spy a mountain range

we didn’t know was there. 

In a place designed for war

we find peace. 

(A salute to all veterans, especially my father  — and all those who served at Fort Worden.)
Stan’s Side

Stan’s Side

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For the last few days I’ve been getting to know an old friend, Standard — Stan for short.

I haven’t seen him since March, but here he is again, and up to his usual tricks: early mornings, early evenings, a sense that darkness is winning. In a way, it’s not his fault. He arrives on the scene just as the light is fading, and departs when it’s coming into its own. He’s left holding the bag.

Some people want to banish him forever. Others think we should get rid of his flashy cousin. Until we do one or the other, Stan will be the sober fellow who says “you really should go home now, it’s getting dark” or “early to bed and early to rise.” 

If you happen to catch him in the morning, though … it’s a different story. Trust me, I know.  

(Two sunrise photos in a row? Stan made me do it.)

Location, Inspiration

Location, Inspiration

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For a walker in the suburbs, I have trouble with pacing. Not with the steps themselves — those come naturally — but with how many to take in 17 waking hours.

The days of high walking, of great movement, those liberate and restore. But so do the days of sitting and writing, jumping up only when the sun starts sliding to the west and I realize that if I don’t leave now I won’t get to town and back before the sun sets. 

Every time I walk in this place, this faraway and beautiful place, I’m struck by the connection between location and inspiration. I write, I waffle, I sink into despair. Then I lace up my hiking boots, step outside — and the vast views pull me into a deeper truth. And that, I realize, is what I seek.