March 8, 2024, 11:01 AM
High 62ºF/ Low 43ºF, gray skies, pressure 1022, waning crescent
Last week I collaborated with my husband Scott to write about weather systems.
This week we had two low-pressure systems move through.
Low-pressure systems are characterized by rising warm air that leaves a slight vacuum underneath. This movement sucks in the air from all sides. Often this air from different places creates atmospheric chaos, known to us as rain and storms.
The gloomy skies and atmospheric chaos seemed to whip up some crucial conversations in my sphere, as well as jostle loose some new creations in the craft room. The moon is waning, so I am weaving in loose ends, wrapping things up, and clearing the way for the next cycle to begin on March 10.
The present has been coming at me so fast and furiously since we made landfall in June, or really since we landed in Florida in April, or perhaps when we crossed the Caribbean in March or when we sailed under the Golden Gate Bridge in April 2021 and turned West. Maybe it was before that, with the start of the pandemic or any number of my cross-country moves. In any case, the present has been capturing my attention and the past has been piling up. As I continue to attune to my environment here in Richmond, I feel more deeply into how dysregulated my nervous system has become from all of these changes. I also have gained a deepening gratitude for the skills my past self developed to help me glide over some present challenges. I have a long backlog of thank you notes to write to people who have seen me through.
Life feels a bit like the scraggly late winter wreath I showed off last week, and also like the wobbly sproutlings downstairs that need to be planted into bigger pots whenever we find the time. More than ever, I have people along with me for this bumpy ride, which at times feels almost scarier. I know how to stand my watch alone, digging deep to tap my source. I know less about staying rather than retreating when the going gets hard. It seems a lot of people are struggling in isolation, and how could we not be with the awareness of crises around the globe and the compression of schedules that require economic and care-based activities that leave little room for community? I come from a long line of people who feel it’s not right to complain unless there is a solution at hand, and I worry that these writings are more like whining or whinging as I make my way through the shock of US culture compared to elsewhere on the American continent. Who am I to complain after a 777-day sailing voyage? But also, who am I to withhold learnings from aligning our lives with the weather, especially when so many people seemed crushed and disconnected by the urgency and complexity of modern life? Or to cut right to it— who am I these days? Or more pragmatically, how will I find out without my awkward little steps forward?
My teacher/friend Dahlia has been reading I Worried by Mary Oliver and it is a balm.
This time last year, we were happily consumed by preparations for our passage from Cartagena, Colombia to Isla Mujeres, Mexico. The sail was ~1000 miles, completed over 8 days and nights. A dear friend flew to join the crew as our third, which made for one less four-hour watch for me and Scott each day. As a result, we ate better, slept better, and had a little more fun. We also had some seriously spicy weather that was made more bearable by the extra set of hands and extra mind to think through the decision to bail out the Cayman Islands or press on to Mexico.
Last March was a culmination of resting through hurricane season while tending our friends’ property, CocoVivo, in Bocas del Toro, Panama. It came after our scariest sail, the most life-threatening mechanical issue, and the worst air and sea conditions. It came after four visits from loved ones, Spanish class, and a whole lot of boat work and fun in Cartagena.
This week I looked back on some of the Instagram Reels I made during the voyage and it reminded me how simple and silly the experience often was. I also revisited the post below and read it aloud to Scott. I wondered if it would be overly dramatic, but it holds up today. The only thing I’d add is that land life contains a lot of unknowns as well, with more potential to stagnate in the mystery rather than move through and/or with it.
I lowered the pressure this week by picking up easier projects and sharing a few areas I was struggling. Damn, that second one is hard!
Last week I moved my desk upstairs to a corner of our bedroom. Now I can work without lights on, hear the birds chirp, and have a little more predictability on the noise levels around me. This desk space is a good example of my skill at “rummaging”, which is what my housemate Rachel calls my tendency to return from walks with various usable things. The magazine rack and chair were harvested from the neighborhood stoops, and the monitor and basket are hand-me-downs. The adjustable rolling desk, keyboard, thirty-minute hourglass, mouse, and mousepad are from Amazon. The desk is a little wobbly, so if this setup stands the test of time, I may build something more permanent.
It's not complaining to point out the issues in our society. If we don't see them, we can't fix them.