Hi from Sebastopol, where I am buying overpriced groceries from bulk bins at the artisanal co-op, stomping in rain puddles at apple farms, and drinking Bi Luo Chun at the local spiritual-coded haunt surrounded by patterned tapestries, various pan-Asian tea paraphernalia, and a distinct lack of people of color, all of which are good indicators that I am in a peak hippie town. Tomorrow, I will head to Harbin for a healthy hot springs soak, continuing my quest to relive even a whisper of the former glory days when I was a 10-minute drive from a dirt-cheap, naturally-fed onsen at any given moment, then eat wellness food that brooch-wearing white women swoon over and finally force myself to learn what “ayurvedic” means. I’m coasting on the high of discovering that I’m a glutton for physical affection (goodbye lifelong shyness around unsolicited hugs), the deliciously nourishing cuddles that have followed (goodbye cringing at the word “cuddle”), and the bittersweet gratitude of snail-mailing an old friend this news when I wish he was here in person so I could tell him whilst holding both his hands in mine and sitting cross-legged across from one another in my living room.
I’m really in love with existence recently, despite my sardonic tone. It’s drizzling outside, but inside, it’s cozy and warm and smells of incense. A cute girl with a smiley piercing re-steeped my tea for free, and an older man smiled at me across his salad. I ate a delicious portobello and burrata sandwich for lunch. Someone offered to sell me healing in the form of a prayer song, which I found quaint and charming in addition to an obvious scam. I’m running again, training for a couple of half marathons without any real expectation to perform beyond just completing the distance. I’m having fun dancing in public for the first time, so much so that I’m commuting an hour each way just to get more of it, a reality that uncoordinated and choreography-challenged college-aged me would have never bet on. I’m overriding insecurity with acceptance. I’m making a living wage for going tippy-tap on my keyboard. I’m hawking words. I’m exchanging bodywork. I’m going to therapy. I’m making eye contact with strangers that’s so disgustingly good I have no choice but to believe that the divine feminine is real, and that I’m its keeper.
I ran into an old university friend on BART this morning, told him that I love my job and my neighborhood and my movement practices, that I’m growing into my skin in previously unpredictable ways. I’m excited about the people I’m meeting. I’m excited that sometimes they’re excited to meet me too. I’m excited about the possibility of feeling like I belong, like I am a part of something bigger than myself. I’m excited to see where I end up a year from now. I’m excited to see what I’ve done. I’m excited that I have no strong guesses. I’m excited to learn how to love you, and then love you better.
Good writing coalesces around a central point, aims to communicate a main idea. I have entirely failed to do this in these last few posts. I think it’s because I don’t feel a strong desire to teach or analyze or say anything with any real authority. I once wrote to impart wisdom; now I am merely shooting the breeze. I am hitting “send” on low-stakes word vomit about whatever feels present in my world. Of late, this tends to be magniloquent, ideologically repetitive prose that essentially summates to “I’m grateful.”
Here’s the boring truth: Things are generally good, even when they’re bad. My body is functional. My shower heats up quickly and has decent water pressure. A previous housemate left their Crunchyroll logged in, which means I get to binge-watch Frieren: Beyond Journey's End to my heart’s content. The people in my life know that I deeply wish for their well-being. I live a 12-minute walk away from the public library. Sometimes I’m so delighted -- so held by the lightness of my life -- that I skip the whole 12 minutes there.