Fall housekeeping

Last spring, after Seattle's rainiest-ever winter, I was done with rain. I never wanted to see it ever again. But then we had one of our driest, hottest summers ever.

So yesterday, when it rained much of the day, it felt sacramental. And especially at a time when people in other regions are suffering the after-effects of forest fires, hurricanes, and earthquakes, I will not begrudge whatever weather comes our way.

As much as spring always feels like a fresh start, so does fall. With our smoky skies cleared and our streets washed clean, with a new school year underway and baseball season winding down (giving me a little more free time since I am a seating host), autumn is one of my favorite times of year.

Today, I say farewell to two young women who have been staying in our Airbnb these past few weeks as they (successfully) looked for an apartment of their own. It's a challenge and an adventure to move to Seattle these days, so we were happy to give them a launchpad. We'll welcome our next guests in a few days -- but first, I'll enjoy the quiet of the space myself for a while.

Tonight, I begin a new session of the UU Wellspring curriculum I enjoyed the church year before last. I look forward to Wellspring as another opportunity for personal spiritual deepening, as well as the opportunity to walk now through next spring with a small group of kindred spirits.

I find that I blog a little more often during Wellspring, and I now have a little email subscription widget at the top right corner of this blog, if you'd like to see everything I write on here. (Don't worry; it'll still only be a post or two each week at the most.)

One more housekeeping note: I've been compiling a book-length collection of things I've written here and elsewhere over the past 25 years. It'll probably be out before the holidays, so watch this space for more news on that.

Wishing us all a lovely fall ...

Back to the future

Five years ago this month, I launched a blog called Carfree California. I'd moved to Oakland from Idaho earlier that year and was finally able to live without a car -- something I'd long dreamed of doing.

When I moved to Seattle about a year later, I retired that blog and started this one. I continued to live without owning a car for my first two-and-a-half years here. But last March, I surprised myself and everyone who knew me by going out and buying a 2002 VW Jetta.

I did it on a whim; I'd just grown tired of not owning wheels. It was spring and I wanted to take some road trips without the expense of rentals. I'd received a nice tax refund and I paid cash, so there'd be no car payment. Part of me felt guilty for selling out on my ideals. Another part of me said "what the heck." As our buddy Walt wrote, "Do I contradict myself? Very well then I contradict myself, (I am large, I contain multitudes.)"

Fast forward to this week: I take the Jetta in for an oil change and 95,000 mile safety check. The garage calls me with very sad news: The car needs new front and rear brakes, plus a new timing belt and water pump. Ka-ching! After 18 months of spending little beyond gas and insurance, the true cost of car ownership has come due.

So what do I do? I've decided to let go of the car, but it's not a simple decision -- mainly because six months ago, I moved from Seattle to the suburbs, where I now live with my sweetie of four years. It's a lot harder to live here without a car, though not impossible. We have other vehicles in the household, there are bus lines, and I like to walk.

I don't feel like pumping endless money into a vehicle that's going to need many more repairs over its lifetime. And I have to admit: I'm trying to set an example that there are alternative ways to live. Many people view not having a car as deprivation, and after owning one myself for 18 months, I could easily feel that way, too. I get it.

But as I learned in my four earlier years of living without wheels, not owning a car is an adventure. I walk more. I see more. I spend less. I trade convenience for greater consciousness -- of the natural world and of my fellow humans.

Like many other things in life, it's not always easy, but with a good attitude, it can be pretty cool.

On a road trip last year in Idaho.