Packing Night

We're all in the living room. My sister has a huge blue suitcase in the middle of the room, her clothes scattered on various couches and chairs. She leaves tomorrow for her first trip to Europe. And we're all so excited for her. From our enthusiasm, you would think we were all travelling together. The five of us - my mom, sister, and two friends - are lounging on the empty chairs and couches. Her plan is to stay up all night, so that she can sleep on the long flight. Our plan is to stay up with her until we drop off to sleep. So far, she has outfits planned for two of the five weeks.

Outside, the streetlamp struggles to stay awake. It flickers on, off, on, off. Pause. Then back on again.

Our spontaneous laughter fills the room. We have music playing in the background, along with the quiet sounds of my brother (or is that dad?) snoring in the other room.

Two hours later, we've moved from sitting upright to leaning on each other, now we're all rather squished together on the long, blue couch, lying down and hearing the sounds of each other's breaths. The music takes up more and more space. The suitcase is half-full, and all the clothes is now organized into neat piles. It's hard to believe she's actually leaving to travel in Europe, just like we dreamed about when we were little. We're so, so happy for her and just as happy to share these times of packing and planning. I love sister-nights like this.

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Ever-changing landscapes

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Green


(from my travel journal)

I'm learning to see all sorts of greens here in Oregon: bold, vibrant greens at the tops of trees and tall plants, pushing forward toward the sun, the quiet somber greens content to lay low and cover the earth with broad leaves. Then there are the light mint greens that pair themselves with purple lavender and soft pink roses. And the greens that stand by yellows and reds.

I marvel at this infinity variety of color.


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"This heart-stopping transition"



Who could ever tire of this heart-stopping transition, of this breakthrough shift between seeing and knowing you see, between being and knowing you be? It drives you to a life of concentration, it does, a life in which effort draws you down so very deep that when you reface you twist up exhilarated with a yelp and a gasp.

Who could ever tire of this radiant transition, this surfacing to awareness and this deliberate plunging to oblivion - the theatre curtain rising and falling? Who could tire of it when the sum of those moments at the edge - the conscious life we so dread losing - is all we have, the gift at the moment of opening it?

Annie Dillard, An American Childhood

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