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I am UmberDove.

And by that, I mean an artist.  One who hears stories in the wind, who paints because it is what her soul tells her to do, who smiths because the muse moves through her fingertips, who loves nothing more than the promise of an unexplored trail, the sound of the ocean in her ears, and scent of a serious cup of coffee.




Well it's official.  All those little well wishes you sent out last week, all ten of my fingers tightly crossed, all the breath we've held hoping to find the right home?  It all converged at the right time and place in a way that was nothing short of miraculous.  

Upon arriving in Seattle last week, I attended a few frenzied open houses, weighed the pros and cons (I was almost terribly swayed by a clawfoot tub and a breathtaking sun-porch in a very unpractical house), but in the end listened intently to my intuition.  I think sometimes our bodies are wiser than us, that somewhere deep in our solar plexus a compass spins with absolute accuracy.  And when we pulled into the drive of this charmer, my compass spun with the fire of the sun.  I knew it would be right even before I stepped over that 1920's threshold.  

First though, I need to come clean.
The last few months have been rough, and I confess to being the small wounded beast who hides in private, shadowy corners when life turns upside-down.  I've vacillated between a light heart and nimble fingers, and a black crush of anxiety.  I've been wrestling with a fear-demon and there were days when the flame of light in my chest sputtered and dampened.  Truly, never has an impending move felt so strangely full of symbolism, hope and threat.  It's been a mess of illogical terrors that the mind concocts to explain away the bad things in life (i.e. cancer.  Shitty, shitty cancer.  What has happened to me, what is happening to a dear friend, and what had happened to a recently departed).   In the name of authenticity I want you to know this: no life is always easy, and no life is always full of butterflies and rainbows, and mine is certainly no exception.  I suppose really what I'm trying to say is that sometimes, life is damn gritty.  And it hurts.  And that sometimes, you'll wake up in the morning and that ball of panic that has been rolling around in your stomach will have rolled right out the front door and the only thing you notice are the birds singing in the dawn.

For me, that open door was the thing.  Nearly a quarter acre, hemmed in by ancient cedars, somehow still smack in the middle of the city doesn't hurt either.
* * *

Other bits of interest and education?  I heartily recommend that one DOES NOT eat an entire pound-and-a-half of cherries during the course of an eleven hour drive, topped off by a large grapefruit.  I thought I was immune (in fact, after the drive up, I may have uttered those exact words with smug pride), but apparently, everyone has a threshold for fruit consumption.  Who knew?

When returning from the Camelot of Coffee, from the land of milk and caffeine, from the seventh heaven of sweet crema, to a house devoid of a single coffee bean know this: dirty, dark beans clearly roasted sometime during the revolutionary war, from the shady little corner market will taste like motor oil and you will cry exactly three tears before dumping that crap down the drain.

In other news, if you haven't yet seen THIS, well then let me regale you now.  BC and I had that hat stashed away before we even knew if our new "niece," Bowie Andromeda was a she.  We're totally going to be the cool aunt and uncle who keep her in sci-fi-geek-wear, teach the little lady words like "mullet" and how to fist bump grandma.
It feels good to be home, but even better to know that "home" is waiting just a few hundred miles up the coast for us as well.
Cheers birds,
~ Umber ~