where it’s gone

I miss my writing too.

But in the way that I miss and love my mom. Feeling grounded by the fact that she’s there. Yet not needing to live in a bedroom in her house.

But I do miss my writing. Where has it gone?

It’s been sprinkled into 1-inch holes in the ground, along with arugula and red poppies and chamomile and wheat grass.

It’s been scratching the purring chin of my adopted black cat and tossing the frisbee of my adopted black lab.

It’s been crushing the Indian spices of cloves, cardamom, and lychee seed with  a mortar for a batch guest-welcoming  chai tea.

It’s been typing, typing, typing up notes, journals, contacts and stories into a Princeton bridge year participation guide.

It’s been scribbling in dates of weddings, births, graduations into a calendar of family & friendly events long ignored.

It’s been writing out checks for banal things like health insurance that I can no longer risk not having.

It’s been intertwined in the knots of my hammock as I gather momentum for my swing by pushing off the aspen trees.

It’s been scrolling excitedly through news on the politics and peoples’ movements of a society I once shunned, but am finally free to rally.

It’s been wrapped around my lover’s hand through ten blissful hours of sleep each night.

It’s been gripped (rather tightly) around his waist, as well, on the back of ancient Yamaha.

It’s been folding laundry and other tasks which would be mundane if they weren’t, for me, still new and charming.

It’s been pealing apart Kambucha babies and involved with other mysterious science experiments and home brew health remedies.

It’s been freeing 1500 live lady bugs into a garden in need of more predators to control a spider mite frenzy.

It’s been printing out photos and holding them up to the light, to look for memories that passed too fast, being all too back-to-back.

It’s been attached to wide arms wrapped around old and new friends from whom I’ve been gone too long.

It’s been folded around steaming black coffee cups, sipped silently with unearthly appreciation.

It’s been stripping leaves off of Kale and into salads of organics in new found fresh food access I’ve only dreamed of.

It’s been sipping cheap black boxed wine on sunny decks full of favorite people and knee slapping laughter.

It’s picked up the remote once a day to watch John Stewart reduce it all to what it is.

It’s carefully inspected the petals of the orchid who’s opened seven blooms since I’ve arrived.

And it continues on bud watch, for the three on standby.

It’s trailed its fingers, from a canoe, in the waters of the windy green river, while naked women danced unabashed.

It’s tossed a lot of dry Rocky Mountain snow into the air like confetti, buried the lab while at it, laughing all and only to myself.

It’s crumbled manure onto hungry beds of wild flowers yet to show their appetite appeased.

It’s wrung itself to brace the pain of a cracked molar four years deep in nerve damage neglected.

It’s dug into roof tiles, crawling to the top of the house for a New York mountain range sunset.

And it probably spends too much time dancing on the face of my iPhone appeasing my inner tech geek in scout of the most exciting new app.

It’s unpacked boxes of things I scratch my head and can’t remember owning.

It’s marveled at the aspens and their evidence of the first consecutive seasons, in over ten years, I’ve witnessed passing.

From heavy green, to pure gold, then brown, soon after fallen,

Stick-like wearing only snow, to strings of seeds and bulging buds,

This week, sprouts of miniature young golden leaves aged to adolescence, in a day’s time, before my eyes.

I guess those are the places my writing has been.

And perhaps if my writing hadn’t been anywhere else, it would take no joy in the simplicity of what it’s doing.

But it’s been everywhere. It’s been all over the world. And thus it knows.

It’s happy right where it is.


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  1. jaz June 30, 2009 at 7:46 pm

    thank you SO MUCH for all of your beautiful words and photos

    i see you in me and me in you
    and it’s inspiring; comforting

    much love, gratitude, and blessings

  2. Alex C June 28, 2009 at 4:06 pm

    Hi Christina,
    you maybe do not remember me, we met in a bus in Portugal. You were coming from Santiago following the blue arrows south after following the yellow ones, until you had lost the track too many times. We had a very short talk but I got then fascinated by your lifestyle and freedom.
    Now and then, mostly when, looking for a contact in my address book I saw the piece of paper you left me your contact on, I came to this website, and read a little about your wandering, and enjoyed it. Some days ago it happened again and here I am.
    I am glad you’re happy home.

  3. Sheli June 15, 2009 at 6:04 am

    I, too, have followed your travels, since 2004. there was once a time when we were in india together. i am always so moved by your writing, and your gentle passion for life. you have been a constant inspiration. thankyou for sharing.

  4. Doug from Canada June 4, 2009 at 12:46 am

    You’re home? Im happy for you.

    And honestly, a bit sad. Selfishly, I think my vicarious travel life will suffer, even though I have not read your blog as religiously as I once did. It just felt good knowing that you were out there doing what you do.

    …but then again, partly through your inspiration my son has traveled Europe, and particularly the Camino de Santiago, and I have bought a tiny cabin in the woods on the Big Island, where living on solar power and catchment water is the norm, and life is simple. Hope to spend more and more time there and eventually make it ‘home’ too.

    Life is good …very good indeed. Thanks for the inspiration Sol.

  5. Max May 28, 2009 at 6:58 pm

    Each of those sentences is like a photo, vivid. Thank you. Btw, quite a world of words in an iphone app is one called “big blue book”, odd and unusual but interesting.

  6. Fabby May 28, 2009 at 3:35 am

    Welcome home…and thank you for sharing you’re life and adventures for the last 10yrs. Una vida increible…historia tras historia, muy conmovedora. I have shared and enjoyed the growth & the spirtual journey. Gracias Sol!!

  7. funchilde May 26, 2009 at 8:56 pm

    it is the pause between sentences that make a story. welcome “home” pilgrim.

  8. Melissa May 23, 2009 at 5:25 am

    agreed 🙂

  9. Richard May 22, 2009 at 8:57 am

    And it’s as beautiful in its flow and caress as it has always been.

  10. Jim May 21, 2009 at 9:28 am


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