No music today—just a sigh and a lime mead that tasted like summer’s tail was flickering. I hiked in Sandy’s Canyon last week and had nothing profound to say about it. The person walking with me says that a lot. Sometimes, there is just nothing to say. I think there is wisdom in that—and also complacency, depending on the moment. As usual, I find myself half inspired and half annoyed. For a writer, that’s hard, and as someone who gets paid for having something to say, I’m glad I have a lot on my mind. But I’m getting used to the discomfort of not having anything to say, especially about the progress of moving back home, which is currently held up by several factors. Permits, grants, knowledge of my own future—it’s all at a standstill. In the meantime, yellow tulips and buds sprout in the backyard. It doesn’t need me to know. Spring hasn’t exactly arrived—it’s just beginning to exhale, with some snow-filled sneezes. The ground is still cold, but the light lasts longer. Things are loosening.
This spring’s return to snow felt wonderfully healing. After a brittle, snowless winter that cracked something open in all of us—emotionally, ecologically-feel like something was being undone. For months, it felt like we skipped my favorite season. When the snow came back, even briefly, it felt like the earth was saying, “Sorry I ghosted.”
I hiked Fat Man’s Loop, too, a few weeks back. I’m not Flagstaff’s most devoted hiker, and I’ve lived here long enough to know that’s practically a confession. I’m the opposite of a gearhead. Six months typically go by before I realize I must do something. I think I hike more frequently in Sedona. Do I love hiking? Yes. I absolutely do. I return to the trails I’ve hiked since childhood, slowly and in light snow, ideally with a film camera where I take a whole roll within the first ten minutes and am slowing everyone else down. I would like someone else to carry a water bottle. If I carry my own, I have to pee too often. I often don’t make it to the end of the trail. Ideally, there would be snack breaks. I was raised here, and that’s how I like to hike. I forget sunscreen, too, almost every day of the year. But even though I’m not in the cool (or even safe) zone for hiking, I absolutely do love it. I just wouldn’t put it on, say, a Tinder profile. I feel anyone who hikes here thinks of it as too serious a business.
My son has been into the New York Times puzzles lately. He’s reading Shipwreck at the Bottom of the World and The Dorito Effect, a combination that somehow makes sense in his curious brain. His return to reading feels like what we’d be doing at home anyway—if, say, it had all just been a nightmare. The kid reads more than I do, but I have been enjoying movies like Perfect Days and Paterson—slow, grounding, and poetic. I remember my younger mom days, where reading was a lifestyle- at Bookmans and the library. I miss those. He lost his first tooth at Bookmans. Browsing new children’s books on library shelves like treasure. I may not be able to return to my home, but there are places I can return to.
In March, I traveled for spring break and then for a writing conference. Phoenix and then LA. Somehow, pupusas followed us across the state line. In LA, I braved a too-long Amtrak ride that reminded me my body isn’t twenty anymore. The seat was stiff. And what we can’t return to, again, was noticed.
While we were gone, I found myself missing small things that still felt like mine—like the meadery and Timberline ice cream. Places that weren’t my house, but still offered that sense of return. We lose so much in a fire, but these small constants—something sweet, something familiar, something you can still taste—have become a doorknob to healing.
I’m slightly embarrassed to be inspired by Johnsonville’s “Keep It Juicy” campaign. The commercial hit a nerve with how I feel most of my existence is digital these days. Human interaction almost impossible to come by. Sure, I may be seen at the literary festival, a church, or at work, but an invitation to hang out in person—from anyone other than my home trio—is nearly impossible. I used to long for a return to pre-COVID social connection, but really, that was just one mom who texted me and never wanted to hang out. I’m not even sure where to return to socially. Maybe long phone calls. Maybe NYC. Maybe having a band.
We’re somewhere between the damage and the dream, in that strange space where presence matters more than progress. And maybe parenting a pre-teen is a kind of rebuilding too—raw, sometimes overwhelming. You start realizing both what can’t be fixed, and what doesn’t need to be.
For the moment, my son wants to sing Blackbird. So, we do.
