Palm Springs

One of my favorite things to do is fill a bag. The weight of groceries, grass collecting in the mower's bag, fingering fabrics in the wardrobe, picking out pieces for a trip, folded, placed inside. On Friday, after work, the luxury in a glass of white wine over packing barely-there clothing, swimwear, sunglasses, straw hat - all of these items that had been set aside for winter were now in this evocative bag, filled and filling me. 

Early Saturday morning, with Biscuit & Perve circling sleepily around our feet for wet food, I put on something I felt good in. We picked up sickly-sweet lattes, drove to grandmother’s, where she had just come from the shower and smelled sweet, clean, beautiful. They took us to the airport, and in between fits of sleep and Thomas Pynchon, the sun rose. The Palm Springs airport is magic. Like walking into a spa: soft breeze, 90 degrees, open air, palm trees, shorts, cold beers and white wine, but compact, small, the furthest from too much (commotion, people, things).

Red's mother & brother picked us up, air conditioning & bottled water; drove us dry-deserted to Bermuda Dunes, Bella Vista, the golf & gated country where the family had rented a home for the month, to bring everyone together. The front yard lined in grapefruit & palm trees, palm frond & rose bushes, hummingbirds flitting from the ever-nectar of heat-dispelled buds.

Immediately kitchen: hot dogs and buns roasting on the bbq, king crab legs, sliced fruit, a pitcher of greyhounds, endless trips to the ice drawer. I aqua-jogged as active recovery alongside the nugz, all fervent in salt-water energy, laid poolside for hours, enmeshed in book, in catching up with the women. A pasta feed and red wine for dinner. Sitting around the pool in the dark, with cerulean light in movement as the hot tub gathered bodies.

In the morning Red & I woke in the dark, drove 45 minutes outside the city, in the Mecca Hills wilderness, along the san andreas fault, where the rocks told stories in red and towered above us flat-faced. The path was thick white sand and pastel bushes. We stopped in a hug of a canyon, in purpled light & Red got down on his knee with a ring he had designed alongside his mother.

You know the long hug? The kind you give or get when you're really hurting or really giving or really forcing a person to know something like, feel-the-weight-of-me in this no-longer-aloneness? And a waltz, glimpse, hand tilts all still in the purpled light, white walk, red hug. We walked until it dead-ended upon a ladder leading up a rock face, half-broken, and I climbed up to find bees bursting from the ground.

I ran in the desert, along basil fields and vineyards, under a beating sun. Started to limp, my left foot in sharp pain, but I wanted more, to think in that space only running provides. Red stopped ahead every mile to hand water, and it felt like a fierce testament, like running is my future and my support team is solid, immense. The pain became a cuboid bone bruise; out with a bang.

Engaged in the engagement aura, we grabbed massive iced coffees & toasted bagels, watched an arrest, limping. Drove home in social anxiety, intimidated I guess, by the idea that I might find myself at the center of conversation (ego). How it actually was, was this graceful woman opened the front door and kissed my cheeks and said, "Welcome to the Family." A vase of ombre roses, cards, Shel Silverstein books and confetti around the dinner table, an enormous platter of dressed steaks put under our noses for approval, bubbles and vintages from an uncle's wine cellar, feet up, stories surround. I think I spent the rest of the day on my stomach on the hot pink floaty-bed, burning red, sipping cocktails in the dry breeze. Corks popped, a toast, the lavish meat & grilled vegetable dinner, Beth's homemade crisps and deep-dish bevies of berries before crashing hard into bed beneath a painting of blues & saxophone.

We woke before the house did and walk-limped to the golf course as the light was coming through the palms. The mountains just beyond reminded me of Boulder, which felt good. For breakfast Elena made us banana pancakes with sliced pear, bacon, coffee cake and coffee, savored beside the pool. Naps, books, In-N-Out burgers, fries, shakes. We flirted with changing the flights, calling in sick. We should have said Yes. Always say Yes for the soul.

With champagne roadies, Red's father drove us to the airport. Inside, the birds flitting between the podiums, us sitting with more beer, champagne, people watching watching people. A long flight, back between sleep & Pynchon, fully circled, until we were in our home, decorated with sign & 'fetti, a magnum & card from LB. 

I'd come to choose aloneness, singleness, and not the image of singleness. I asked myself alone, in the company of loved ones, alongside partners, "Am I ok alone? If this wasn't this?" Different from trying, to be alone, from not asking for help, as if aloneness were a motive, a role, a function of stubborn. An evocative path to navigate - finding aloneness when you're with someone as opposed to feeling alone when you're with someone. What I mean is that when I finally let go, and when I was finally ok to be without, Red walked into the bar, showed me his achilles tattoo, whispered something in my ear, offered a dimpled smile and made me feel, somehow, like I was a completely independent & possible woman in his company. I mean, he painted my toenails so they'd look decent for the MRI, and I'm in love with Whisker Biscuit.