The Seattlite

This morning I took a turn about the property while the skies still dripped and the squirrels tormented the dogs.  I can not even express my gratitude to the powers that be that this odd patch of city-proper property is large enough to warent a turn!  Truly it feels like a mini forest, green and deep, that just happens to be exactly one block from a sweet little coffee shop and a pretty major grocery.  I had only hoped for a compromise this gentle, for a place to live that would feel easy on this wildish soul.
Durring my turn, I also discovered a rather tragic hole in the side of my boots which resulted in a squishy wet sock, but truly just means I need to go boot shopping pronto (I know, serious first world problems... poor me and my boot collection.  p.s. don't judge me).
At night I lay in bed listening to the pull of wind and the slosh of rain for hours.  We've had the bedroom window open, which means the breeze blows in and travels approximately ten inches to my nose, and smells like Jesus on toast.  I don't even know what that means, but it's spicy and damp and green and crisp and I love it.

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Last Saturday when we held a little "come help us unload the moving truck and we'll treat you to lunch and day drinking," a dear friend stood in the center of the living room amid towering piles of boxes, bags, barely enough room to wind a path, and announced that our things already seemed to fit this house.  I have to agree.  It's all coming together surprisingly easily.  A few days ago I repainted the living room from a mustard-ketchup combination (not terrible, but crimson walls just don't feel like me) to a luscious "Retro Avocado" and a color found in the Home Depot "oops" department that looks like the pale greenie-yellow heart center of a white dalhia. 

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I know Seattle has a rap for grey skies and daily drizzles.  I'm here to tell you that while this is true, summers in the Pacific Northwest are a glory to behold.  Right now as I type the sunlight is pouring in the windows, illuminating every nook and cranny.  I don't believe I'll even need to turn on a light when I set to work in the studio today for the first time; have I mentioned that room is more windows than walls?  Big, wide, triple paned original 1920's windows?  It's swoonable.  I think some good work will come out of that space.  

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(from my sketchbook writings, early September 2012)
The light is slanting through the front door windows in a full spectrum on morning chroma.  Dust particles, microscopic detritus, even the inevitable dog hair floating in those beams, they all cause me to stop in my tracks and take in the rising sun.  East.  This is a new beginning, a new turn, a new day, a new chapter and that prismacolored light sums up my feelings about this new house.
Last night in those same beveled panes I studied a magnificent moth illuminated by the porch light.  She caused me to remember BC's words in my moments of angst over the urban life: "It doesn't matter where you are, you'll still find nature, you'll still call it to you."  I can rest easier at night in those words. This plot, this patch of land, a venerable oasis in the city, feels magical.  Like old magic.  The wizened apple tree at the western base of the property, the cedar out front,  the pine to the south; I have no doubt these trees remember when the ridge was a thick expanse of rolling green.  They were young when the foundations of this house were laid, they watched as decades past, homes and families coming and going.  When I put my hands on them, they feel ancient and warm.
I've decided I will love this place.

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I've missed you my friends.
It feels good to be back.