Armchair Traveler

Time is nature's way of keeping everything from happening all at once - a joke with truth to it. I'm wondering about far-out theories of multiple realities because lately I've been visiting France and Italy without even leaving Seattle. No, I'm not talking about dining at Basque or Tuscan restaurants that take me on imaginary journeys with their amazing flavors. I'm talking about the uncanny feeling that I am, for a split second or two, back among the cobbled streets of Vernazza or looking at the sky above medieval Le Baux.

This isn't about hallucination – that I'd be worried about. I'm not seeing tangible, 3-D evidence before my eyes of places past explored. It's more a fleeting rush through my being that the quality of the air, the light, and my inner state have somehow aligned exactly with certain moments in those places.


Waking the other day, I heard church bells in my neighborhood that I'd never noticed before. For a second the bells and I were in a little hillside town, looking perhaps at a map or a guidebook during breakfast and wondering what lay ahead. A feeling of freedom and discovery washed through me, even though it was a work day. The sky was blue, and the day promised to be pleasant and of my own making. I was in a new place with nothing but my interest and energy, ready to explore a new, strange place and be thrilled. A few seconds later, I was home.

This happened a couple other times recently, once when I was driving to nowhere in particular, and another time on a walk. Perhaps it goes back to resonance: enough elements in the current time line up with the qualities of the one I had before, elsewhere, and the tuning fork is struck. Deja vous doesn't describe it; it's not a duplicate of something that already happened. It's more a felt sense in the body than one in the head. Perhaps it has something to do with quantum mechanics. Maybe it's something about a time wormhole that is joining current moments with ones already lived, and I'm having trouble distinguishing which year/life/place it is – because in theory, past, present and future – and location – are all of the same package.

The possibilities are mind blowing. Considering them makes life more fun, and interesting, than throwing out every idea that doesn't immediately make sense. All I can tell you is that I will never forget the morning I woke up in my sleeping bag on a campout when I was eight years old. It was the only time I have slept in the open, on the ground. Just before I opened my eyes, I was in the jungle, the cacophony of parrots and other animals around me, humidity steaming in the shafts of light that pierced the canopy of the rainforest.

When I opened my eyes, I was in the wide, grassy field just down the street from my house.

To the best of my knowledge, it was not a dream, but I didn't know what to make of it. I was young, a factor taken into consideration when revisiting the incident at a later date. But I also vaguely recall having the mental ability to "shrink my consciousness" into my thumb when I was a toddler. I would toggle it back and forth, saying to myself, "little, big, little, big." What this was all about, I have no idea, but clearly I was able to distinguish between two different states that felt like more than words.

It's too bad I can't travel back through some wormhole to childhood to see what was going on, before life closed the mind off to certain ways of experiencing. I'm not the first one to say it – but isn't it a kick that children may just be masters of the quantum universe without even knowing it.

Spring in July

Wow! I'm so off center these last couple of weeks. Getting used to a new job has pulled me away from the strong sense of self I had before I started. My husband reminded me that this is probably natural, but the strength I had been feeling is so precious and young I am anxious about losing it. I suspect it will return. I also suspect that perimenopausal issues continue to affect my energy levels and moods. Though they (the moods) are more stable than ever, they still surprise me sometimes, and instead of dissecting or resisting it I'm learning that I have to let go even more than I already have. It doesn't matter, for instance, if I've had one nap that day – if I need to lie down again, so be it. Nor does it have to mean anything in particular that getting a load of laundry done, taking a walk and reading are all I can manage sometimes.

I've never written about my letting go process, at least not in depth. On top of the difficulty of finding the right words for it, I know that it's not over yet. My sense is that I'm just coming out of the forest. It's a progression that for many can take years, and is often nudged into gear by a wake-up call. There are all kinds of these nudges: death, illness, trauma, and midlife are a few perspective-changers that come to mind.

My nudge came on September 11, 2001. As for many people, it stripped from me feelings of safety and security, even from 3000 miles away, that were taken for granted. It led me to the "final answer" of questioning my own status quo, led me to transform dynamics I'd been struggling with for years. (I was 42 years old, which, if you are into astrology or numerology, is a multiple of vital number seven.) It led me to try antidepressants, which I'd resisted for years on the poor-in-hindsight advice of a former therapist (but were, paradoxically, later encouraged by my naturopath). Celexa was a lifesaver, and helped usher me into a phase of great personal change and growth. I got fired for the first time ever in my Supergirl life, more due to lackluster performance from a poor job fit than any conscious sabotage.

In the summer of 2003, I drifted into states of mystical bliss, in lust and love with everyone and everything. A raw energy took me over that seemed to come from somewhere else, from behind some partition in my psyche. Voices that were not my own spoke to me, comforted me, guided me. An intense sexual energy I'd never felt kept my 2nd and 3rd chakras warm and buzzing for months, and anything remotely or directly sexual (sounds, drawings, talk) made me nearly swoon. ( I remember being in the erotic section of a bookstore and having to hold onto the bookcase while perusing an illustrated how-to manual.) At work I was followed into stairwells, bathroom stalls and elevators by this energy, which pounced on me day and night almost against my will. At the time I likened this amazing sensation to the difference between taste and smell: the tangible aspects of this presence, this ardent spirit, were not visible, but the effect and scent were the same. Needless to say, my ideas about life and psyche and spirit were profoundly altered.

The above-mentioned episode, which has been considerably condensed and simplified, led to The Great Shedding: of our high-maintenance old house, of ideas about work and myself, of friends, location, income - of outmoded ways period. Enter the liminal phase: of travel, visionary dreams, breathwork sessions, a new respect for astrology, financial insecurity, trying new and part time jobs and housing arrangements, and taking two hour naps every day for two years. Of losing two beloved, aged cats who saw us through 17 years of our journey. Of walking endlessly and observing everything, being with the pain and grief of "not knowing" and losing my grip on life as I had known it. Thank goodness my husband was on board with all of this; indeed, he was the beneficiary of my inflamed sexual energy! But had he known about the turmoil we would be heading into, I doubt he would have come along so easily.

Financing The Great Shedding and the liminal phase were the proceeds from selling our old house. A $160,000 profit paid off all debts and loans, and enabled hubby and me to go to Europe twice and me to Mexico several times - the latter reinvigorating my love of photography and of exploring new cultures. The house money enabled me to work part time while in the Shadowlands, and encouraged my husband to leave his stifling 20 year civil service job and undrtake his own midlife crisis. (One that he only came out of a few months ago.) Ai carumba, two of us in turmoil at once! Good thing we have no kids.

The last of our house profits were spent last summer, when a month-long foray to California to explore living and work options turned up no easy answers. So here we are back in Seattle – broke, accepting monthly assistance from my parents, but actually happier and more solid than ever, and optimistic about the future. There are practical things to consider: neither of us now makes enough money to keep on top of our bills. We are considering moving out to the suburbs to save on rent. But after so much change and four moves in five years, we are tired. We want to rest a bit, settle into a new phase now that it feels like the Shadowlands are behind us. In the cycle of personal seasons, we are in Spring. I want to strengthen the root system of our budding selves. We will fertilize, water and care for our tender green shoots as best we can. As for the rest - well, like any newly planted garden, we get to watch and wait.