where did i put my mittens?

It's true that we Santa Barbarans don't get much in terms of changing seasons, but I swear that when I stepped outside the day after Thanksgiving, there was something different in the air. And it was more than just the subtly cooler temperature. The breeze that rushed past me held some old familiar wintery aroma. I inhaled and was back in the driveway of my childhood home, scraping the frost off of my windshield with the case of an old cassette tape. There's nothing like the Christmas season to make me nostalgic.

I unravelled my Christmas memories with a mess of stringed lights yesterday afternoon. Those snowy Saturday afternoons when my sisters and I pulled our old ornaments out of their boxes were some of the dearest times in my early years. I could go on all day retelling those old stories, but I won't. It would probably bore you. For the first few years after moving out West, I wouldn't allow Christmas to enter our home. I needed to take a stand against the commercialism and materialism that the holiday is so tangled up with. But something changed in the past couple of years, and I've cracked the back door open and quietly invited it back in -- the red and green and tinsle and gingerbread and any holiday accessory that really does make my heart jump if I stand there for a while and really look at it well.

It's nearly winter down here, and the old heaters are putting some warmth in the rooms. The cat's taken a liking to sleeping in our bed again, and we're playing Christmas songs in the far room where we can look out onto the street spotted with the holiday lights of our neighbors'. I even hear that the mountains we see from our living room are likely to have snow on them before the year is out.

just another night in the neighborhood

Last night we decided to walk downtown, get some coffee, and maybe grab a quick dinner before heading back home to continue working on a little recording project we've been experimenting with. While we were waiting for our food, Jon noticed a poster advertising a concert at a little theatre down the street. He told me who it was. "Ray Lamontagne. . . ," I thought, "haven't I heard that name somewhere? Yes! I just read an article about him in Paste Magazine!" We started talking about how much fun it would be to go over and see if there were tickets, not really expecting it to work out. We came to the conclusion that if it was meant to be, there would be tickets when we got to the theatre. Two seats were waiting for us when we arrived. We snatched them up and waited for the doors to open.

David Ford was first on stage, and was the most compelling opener we can remember seeing in a long time. He looped his voice, piano and guitar parts, and some suitcase-pounding percussion to fill out his one-man show. I've been working on writing lyrics lately and have struggled with trying to make every single line beautiful and somewhat complex. David's songs told me that it isn't lyrics alone that will make our songs good. It's the way the music, the lyrics and our presence all work together to create an experience for listeners. It was a welcomed message from something outside of myself, and I tucked it into a place in my memory where I'd be able to take it out and read it frequently

During the intermission, Jon got up for a moment. The next thing I knew, he had dropped into the seat next to me and whispered into my ear, "LOOK BEHIND YOU." I made a half-assed attempt at being nonchalant about turning my head to look, and hopefully had no visible reaction when I saw this guy:

The music began again. Ray's calming music and whispery voice put me in a state of stillness I usually only find when I have spent an entire day relaxing. A couple of songs later, he started to open up his voice and really let it loose. Damn! This man had a vocal depth and power that completley knocked me over. In between songs, we started hearing a very drunk audience member in the aisle just to our right making his requests known to Ray. "EVERY TIME!" he shouted. I suppose that's the name of a song he wanted to hear. Jon had a better view of him than I did, and leaned over to inform me, "He's taking off his shoes now. oh.. . and socks." When I finally looked over, he also had his shirt off. I quickly looked away, not wanting this inebriated man to ruin my experience. But out of the corner of my eye, I could not help but notice the form of this shirtless man dancing in a very oompa-loompa sort of way, and I started to laugh. And Jon started to laugh. And Ted Danson started to laugh. Mr. Shirtless, who was sporting a lovely pair of suspenders over his flat chest, was swinging his arms around in a circle as fast as he could, and none of us could STOP LAUGHING.

The show was good, we walked home and went to bed. Yep, just another uneventful night in our neighborhood.

the sun's coming up

These changes came softly. For the first week or so I was too busy to notice, my head down, intently sorting through boxes, streets and cupboards. But when I got still and looked around, all I saw was beauty I'd never really known before. When I walked through town, all I found were calm, contented people, quick to offer ideas and a warm welcome. When I headed a mile or so South, all I saw was ocean, ocean, ocean. And I heard myself thinking, "No way is this my home. it's just too good."

The shape of my days is so vastly different than it ever has been. I arrive at work when my feet have taken me there, and I'm free to make my own schedule. This job involves quite a bit of responsibility, and it's the first time I've worked a full 40-hour week in a few years, but I've never had so little stress at work. It must have something to do with my confidence in myself, my boss' confidence in me, and the fact that I am surrounded by therapists all day. Before we left the Bay Area, I kept thinking how nice it would be to at least have a counselor-type of person in my life. Now I have 25 of them.

In the evenings Jon and I eat dinner sitting in our built-in booth, then usually we walk downtown to get some tea, do a little shopping, or just enjoy what the night lighting does to the local scenery. We run into people we know nearly every day, which really makes this place feel like a small town. Actually, it is. The population in this city is slightly less than in South Bend, Indiana. But in many ways, it feels like we live in a big city. Somehow we've landed somewhere with the best of both worlds. If the price of housing wasn't so high, I'd say I'd never leave.

I'm thinking about adding a "visitor calendar" to my blog. I want to share my new surroundings with all of you friends and family members, not to make you jealous, but because beauty does good things to people, and there's quite an abundance of it here. I'm trying to digest the fact that this IS my home now. I guess sometimes we get a whole lot more than what we ask for.