A deciduous rainforest in a temperate zone.

I went backpacking this past weekend with some friends in the Great Smoky Mountains. You may recall my love of National Parks, so I was quite happy. Despite some rain, it was great fun.

(Yes, it really was fun! I promise! )

Because of the rain the mountains were beautiful and smoky. The views were lovely, the temperature was ideal, and it was lush and green (some sections do actually qualify as a rainforest).

And yet, I've been homesick for two days. The mountains were lovely (and yes, even mountains). But, they're not MY mountains. We've always given my mom a hard time over her obsession with Mount Olympus in Utah. She always called it her mountain. She grew up at the base of it. Her family has lived there for generations. These Smokies were Brooke and Mike and Clint's mountains. My mountains are far away and look a little browner. I may or may not have spent some time searching on Flickr today. Just because.

A recurring dream.

I have stressful dreams. Rarely do I awake from a dream feeling peaceful. I think that must be where I work out my daily anxieties. Among said dreams, though, most belong to a predictable set of recurring dreams that I have over and over and over again. The settings differ, the contexts differ, but the overall themes are generally few. Such themes include (but are not limited to): falling, being naked in public, getting lost, etc. In particular, the naked-in-public dream I have with regularity is being in a bathroom/locker room/dressing room only to realize it is open on at least one side, and I am now exposed to the entire gym/office/store/street.

So, when I walked into my hotel room in Hong Kong (another work trip) the first thing I noticed was my entire bathroom is glass. I have not bothered to put down the shade, as I find I rather enjoy watching TV from the bathtub, or brushing my teeth while looking out across the room to the harbor view. But, literally the first thing I thought was... this is just like my dream.







(My life is so hard.)

This old house.

For better or worse, buying a house built in 1949 means it comes with a history. My entry into the tale began when my home inspector found children's chalk drawings on the side of a walled-off section of the attic. Creepy, no? My sister and I came up with some good stories. Both my mother and my realtor thought nothing of it. (Party poopers.)

I still think my version was better, especially after uncovering this after clearing some trees and shrubs out of my overgrown backyard:

Half-decayed fire pit? or Pagan altar? You decide. I have.

Since then I've continued to clear out the yard. (With help, that is, I have some really amazing friends.) And when I say clear, I mean it was previously a jungle. My neighbor says it was solid overgrowth as long as he can remember, and he's lived there for over 20 years.

I am gradually working my way toward the pile of sticks and leaves and brush in the back corner that has fascinated me since I moved in. At first, all I could see below it was a cinder block corner:

Then, carpet?

An old aluminum window frame? With screen?

And does anyone know what this is?

Some might say it's just a junk pile. But I think there's a story to be made of all of it. (Let's also just say, I have an active imagination. And, I may or may not have seen a few too many episodes of Bones in my time).

What else will I find? To be continued...

An existential crisis.

Maps have failed me. This may not seem like much to the non-map-people among you, but I assure you this is a weighty matter.

I just tagged along with my parents on their trip to Ireland (in no small part due to an expanding sum of frequent flier miles). Me and my "young eyes" were designated official navigator. Even with two different maps, printed Google directions, a Rick Steves guidebook, and only occasionally helpful road signage, we still had to ask locals more than my injured pride would have liked. (Thanks, though, especially to the nice petrol station attendant in Loughrea, or we would still be driving in circles looking for the entrance to the motorway).

The very core of my identity has been shaken. The alternative is, the country makes no sense. Which can't be true, the people are lovely.

(Read fast!)

If I believed in karma.

(A little late... some of you have already heard this story. Sorry, I'm catching up.)

I was in Seattle for work a couple weeks ago (only 8 more states to go!), and my sister flew up as well since she's off from teaching for the summer. She immediately loved the view from our 32nd floor hotel room. I made some sort of snide remark that she might not be so impressed if there was a fire and we had to climb down 32 flights of stairs.

The very next night? We climbed down 32 flights of stairs. (After being rudely awakened from my dozing during a late night House Hunters International. Don't mock.) And then sat on the sidewalk of downtown Seattle in our pajamas until the fire department gave the all-clear. Coincidence? My sister thinks not.

(If you can see it, that black stuff scattered across the ground is ash...)

(Also, I will admit to having momentary visions of Backdraft while I led our floor's occupants to the stairwell. No worries... I made sure to test the temperature of the doorknob before opening.)

Nostalgia.

I finally just got back to Boston after three years, and it was great to be there for a few days, even if the time seemed to fly by (and two days were sucked up with a conference).

Some things I underestimated:

• How much catching up with friends would feel like I'd never left, even though I haven't seen most of them in person in 3 years.
• How comforting and familiar it would feel to walk through the South End to BUMC.
• Ditto Fenway and the Citgo sign.
• How grating I would find the Boston and greater New England accents. I've never found them pleasant, but after a few years of being surrounded by Southerners, they're more than a little harsh.

Some things I overestimated:

• My patience for public transportation. The waiting, really, not the mode of transit.
• My ability to still navigate around Copley and the Back Bay. (After that, I wisely skipped Beacon Hill)
• That they might have actually cleaned the public restroom in Alewife in the last 3 years.

I'll admit to feeling a little bittersweet at the airport tonight. Hopefully it won't take me three years to get back there the next time!

Pollen Shmollen.

Thanks to our abnormally long, cold winter, everything is now just blooming. At once. Check out the pollen count! Yesterday and today over 5000. Considering it only takes >120 to be considered "extremely high", I'm not sure what this counts as.

My world is coated in a layer of neon green pollen dust. I'm sure my lungs and sinuses aren't getting special treatment. The rain is coming, and I can't wait.