Pandemic postcard #37: 'We are still here'

Eight miles west of Highway 101, I had a decision to make: Continue straight to La Push on Washington 110 or turn right to Mora. I had a reservation at the Mora Campground near Rialto Beach, but check-in was many hours off, so I thought I'd spend the morning at Second Beach near La Push. As I neared the intersection, I saw the choice had been made for me: The temporary road sign flashed "QUILEUTE RESERVATION CLOSED."

Good for them, I thought.

As the pandemic took hold last spring, tribal governments up and down Washington's coast closed their lands to visitors. When summer came and the spread of the virus slowed, many adjacent areas in Olympic National Park opened to stir-crazy Americans seeking outdoor relief from isolation. I saw license plates from all over at Rialto Beach and cars parked a half-mile down Mora Road. But just across the Quileute River, its eponymous tribal nation remained off-limits to outsiders, as did the Makah reservation at the northwestern tip of the contiguous United States and the Quinault Indian Nation in southwestern Washington.

I applaud tribal nations for doing whatever they can to keep the coronavirus at bay, especially given the long history of indigenous people dying from diseases brought by outsiders and the high COVID-19 toll some Indian nations are facing in 2020. The closures are a reminder that the 574 tribal nations in the United States are sovereign and have the right to self-determination as well as the right to receive benefits from the federal government.

At least most of them do. Here in Seattle, we live on the unceded land of the Duwamish people. Our city was named for Duwamish Chief Si'ahl, who famously said, "The earth does not belong to man; man belongs to the earth. This we know: all things are connected like the blood which unites one family. All things are connected." 

The Duwamish are a federally recognized tribe under the 1855 Treaty of Point Elliott, but they are not currently on the list of federally acknowledged tribes. According to the Duwamish website, in 1978, the federal Bureau of Indian Affairs basically amended the treaty by adding seven new rules with which the Duwamish must comply to receive land, benefits, and services. The case has been under review by the Interior Department's Board of Indian Appeals for more than five years. 

Meanwhile, despite being in the heart of one of the wealthiest areas in the United States, many Duwamish people cannot access health services, nor can the tribe profit from tourism and gaming, as so many others do. (Seattle is surrounded by high-end resorts run by the Snoqualmie, Puyallup, Suquamish, and other neighboring tribes.) Even if the Duwamish prevail, I'm not sure how likely I'd be to hit a future casino. But along with more than 10,500 other people--half of whom have signed up in 2020--I've decided it's time to pay a small, symbolic amount of rent to the Duwamish people in recognition of the centuries they've spent caring for the land where I live today.

In last Sunday's online service, my minister Rev. Beth Chronister advocated for Real Rent Duwamish, and she also acknowledged that our physical building is on Duwamish land. I am part of a faith tradition that is grappling like never before with our nation's history of settler colonialism and enslavement. But Rev. Beth cautioned us against absolving ourselves with what theologian Dietrich Bonhoeffer called "cheap grace." We can pay token rent and say a land acknowledgment and call it good, or we can go deeper, into real relationship and covenant with each other. 

I can think of two ways beyond church that I will try to do this. Early in my freelance writing career, I authored two guidebooks that explored the Oregon Trail and the Lewis and Clark Trail. I know I tried my best--given my body of knowledge in the 1990s--to offer a nuanced view of how the United States expanded westward, yet I am sure I fell fall short. As I get future opportunities to write about history, I will do better.

Second, I recommit to living as lightly as I can. I retain a small footprint by American standards, dwelling in 400 square feet, yet like Henry David Thoreau, I need to leave my cabin now and then. I usually go on foot, but I have a car, and I occasionally use it to visit nature that's not within walking distance. A paradox, I know. So when I go into the woods and walk beside the waters, I want to be as mindful as I can of what I find there. "We rarely care for that we cannot name," says British writer Robert Macfarlane, who has worked with artist Jackie Morris and musicians to re-animate lost words from the natural world, just as many Americans seek to authentically connect with indigenous wisdom.  

This is not wisdom from the past. Its practitioners are here now, seeking the right to harvest salmon and protect their water from oil spills. As best I can as a 21st century urban creature of comfort, I want to know plants by their names and birds by their songs. I want to invoke spirits and spells and "sing the things I see," perhaps gaining a tiny fraction of the knowledge possessed by the people who have lived here for millennia and who still live here today. I honor their wisdom and would be grateful for a small measure of it, if I am worthy. Spirit of life, let me be worthy of these gifts, and let us share them widely.

_____

Thank you for reading Surely Joy. You can find the new version of the blog here.

Pandemic postcard #28: Will write for tips

Update: I have taken down my Patreon page as of April 2021. If you'd like to support my work, you can check out more recent posts at Surely Joy's current site, where you'll find a tip jar. Thank you for valuing creativity and the written word.

It's Friday morning, and word has arrived that our First Couple have confirmed cases of coronavirus. Could this year possibly get any weirder? 

It seems like a month ago already, before this latest news and before the raucous debate, but I actually turned down a job this week. After a summer coming up short in my search for work, I was glad to finally have a job offer, especially with the CARES Act federal unemployment assistance long gone and my state unemployment pay ending soon. But something didn't feel right. 

I would have had work for about five weeks this winter, monitoring tests in school classrooms--a job I did a few years ago, too, but that was before COVID. Would the work even happen, with most schools still closed? Then there were the logistical hoops I'd be jumping through to take and keep the job: fingerprinting at a time when it's nearly impossible, weekly COVID tests, heavy-duty PPE requirements. All for a short-term, minimum wage gig with no benefits. 

I finally realized that I'd applied for the job out of fear--of making my rent, of ever working for a wage again. I wound up turning it down out of hope for something better.

Of course, it's a marker of privilege that I can do this. Plenty of people are taking whatever work they can to make ends meet from week to week, despite the threat of a disease that's disproportionately affecting working-class Americans. Many people don't have savings to use in an emergency, never mind during a few lean months. I have savings I can dip into if I need to (and I’ll need to).

Most of all, though, I realized that I want to focus on doing what I do best (and what I'd done my entire adult life until most of my work vanished in March): make a living with words. For seven months, I've been writing these pandemic postcards--essentially a weekly column--to try and make sense of these times, but I have been writing them for free. Not so long ago, before Craigslist and social media decimated local journalism, someone with my background could land a job writing a column or human-interest stories. Those opportunities are rare these days, yet I know I ought to be paid for at least some of my writing. 

That's why--although Surely Joy will remain free (and ad-free)--I've decided to set up a page on Patreon where, for $3 a month, you can let me know my work has value to you. I know this may be a big ask at a time when we are all being asked to contribute to the usual member-supported media outlets plus maintain subscriptions to major journalism organizations that are doing critical work--but if you have $3 a month to spare to support my experiment in crowd-funded punditry, I'll be grateful.

The $3-a-month tier is my "You like me" level. Pledges of this amount can really add up in my small-footprint micro-economy, and I will write at least one patrons-only post each month at Patreon for folks who pledge that amount. (Here's a sample.)

People who pledge $9 a month ("You really like me") will also get access to some behind-the-scenes peeks at my notebooks and work in progress (like this). And because I sense that some of my readers would love to pursue a more joyful, intentional life, I offer the "You want to be like me" tier, which is $27 a month. For that level of support, I will be your personal creativity coach. We'll talk at least once a quarter about how you'd like to live more fearlessly and creatively. I'll encourage and question and inspire you (and you will do the same for me). 

Surely Joy will never be all I do, and that’s OK. I love to interview people and write feature stories; I just finished my first one since March, an article for 3rd Act magazine about how musicians are weathering the pandemic. I like to edit and I have some possibilities in that area. I fervently hope to be working back at the ballpark next year. It’s a seasonal, minimum wage job, too, but I enjoy the fans and the people I work with.

But the writing I do here feels important--to me and, I know, to some of you. We are in historic times, and I am trying my best to make some sense of them while also lifting up my original reason for this blog: the practice of living a simple, beautiful life and of pursuing joy, described by Brother David Steindl-Rast as "the happiness that doesn't depend on what happens." Joy is more essential than ever as we work hard to make real the world we imagine. And today, we might even permit ourselves a bit of schadenfreude while wishing the Trumps a speedy recovery. Or not.    

Thanks for reading this far, and for considering a pledge. It is an honor to write for you. Let's continue to navigate these strange times together.

Mural at Olympic View Elementary School, Seattle

Pandemic postcard #15: Turn, turn, turn ...

Tom always loved cars.

When Tom died two years ago this week, he left behind a fleet of three vehicles: a 1991 pick-up truck, a 1996 camper van, and a 2010 Prius. Tom always loved wheels of all kinds, and he had a knack for finding good deals. I'd lived without a car much of the past decade, I didn't even especially want to own a car, and all of a sudden I had three.

I had plans for the van and the truck, which I'll get to in a minute. I figured I'd keep the Prius, at least for a while--but when I went to start it a few days after Tom died, it was dead, too. I was flying to Denver the next day to see Tom's family, so I waited until I returned to call AAA. They were unable to jump the battery, so I had to have the car towed down the street to Tom's mechanic--but not until later that week, the earliest they could see it. Meanwhile, I worried and I wondered: Was this a dead 12V battery that wouldn't cost too much to replace, or was this the much more expensive hybrid battery? If it was the latter, did I want to keep the car? As it turned out, it was the 12V. The mechanic replaced it and I had him do an oil change as long as he had the car, only to learn afterward Tom had done one just 1,500 miles before. No big deal. The Prius was good to go.

At the Greenwood Car Show

Tom bought the lovingly converted Ford Aerostar camper van in the fall of 2016 shortly before he underwent a stem cell transplant to address a recurrence of multiple myeloma. He had taken a leap of faith that, come spring, we'd be able to hit the road, and we did. We took the rig to Ocean Shores, WA, a couple of times to visit our friends Marty and Cai; we went camping on Hood Canal; and we motored to Oregon to see the total solar eclipse with our friends Dale and Rebecca. Tom even ordered a special plate for the van and named it Ove. (If you understand, great. If not, this will explain. That was classic Tom.) But by the spring of 2018, Tom's brief remission had ended and he was too sick to travel.   

Before he passed away, knowing that I wasn't interested in keeping the van, Tom had arranged to sell it to Marty, who picked it up a few weeks before Tom died. On the very same day I'd finally had the Prius towed to the garage--it was Friday, July 13th, by the way--I got a text from Marty. He had been driving the van on the interstate at rush hour when the brakes and steering started to give out. I asked him to call me and--after he assured me he was OK--I told him it was fine if he didn't want to buy the van. Well, Marty did still want to buy the van. He said he'd get the repairs made and deduct the cost from the price he and Tom had agreed on. Marty is a good egg.

The pick-up truck was a short-bed manual transmission Toyota, somewhat beat up but still handy to have around. Tom had tried to sell it off and on, with no luck. It had become a communal vehicle for our household and that of Tom's first wife and her husband, who lived about a mile away. We traded it back and forth to haul stuff, so I was pretty sure that Grace and Jon would take the truck, and they did.

Which brings me back to the Prius.

Fast forward 18 months to early this year. I had moved from the suburbs back into Seattle, where I really don't need a car. The Prius stayed parked for weeks at a time. I walked to the grocery store every few days, buying only what I could carry. But I started camping again last summer so I thought, OK, I'll enjoy the car one more summer and then I'll see if either of my stepkids wants it.

And then the pandemic hit. And all of a sudden, I'm not riding buses anymore. I'm not walking to the grocery store as much; I shop less often, but I buy more when I do, so the car has come in handy. Pre-COVID, I preferred to fly or take a train than drive at vacation time, but now it seems road trips are the way we're going to travel for a while until we get a vaccine. I've taken two camping trips with the car this month and I see many more in my future this summer, at least. To everything, there is a season, and these days, the Prius is packed with my camping gear and my inflatable kayak, ready to escape as I get the time and inclination.

The car hit 100,000 miles this week. Its annual registration and insurance are due soon, and I will pay them. A Prius sips gas and is cheap to maintain, and I've learned that the hybrid battery may last another 50,000 miles, maybe more, before it must be replaced. At the rate I drive, that could be another decade.

This will probably be the last car I own, whether I decide I don't need it once the pandemic has passed or I decide to hang onto it as long as I keep driving. One way or another, I just wanted to say once again: Thank you, Tom.

Pandemic postcard #3: Reality sets in

Hello again. How are you this first Friday of April? Wasn't it interesting that April Fool's pranks seemed in short supply this year? We definitely need moments of levity, but foolishness seems out of order in these very weighty times.

For me, this was the week when the reality of the pandemic--and its accompanying economic crisis--really hit home. As I write this, the world COVID-19 case total has passed one million and people are dying at an alarming rate. I was especially sad to learn we have lost songwriter Adam Schlesinger, whose smart work with Fountains of Wayne and snappy title tune for That Thing You Do! have brought me lots of joy over the years. If I need a smile, as I did when I got this news, I need only watch this scene of a band hearing its song on the radio for the first time. Talk about joy. Thank you, Adam. (And please hang in there, John Prine.)

I mentioned last week that a longtime magazine client of mine had abruptly shut down. This week, I confirmed the not-unexpected news that my top editorial client--another travel company--has no work for me for the foreseeable future. I haven't yet joined the official jobless roll; my state's jobless benefits site says it hopes to have information on how self-employed people can apply by mid-April. Meanwhile, I plan to start volunteering at my local food bank next week. They really need help and I have too much time on my hands. They are having people work six feet apart, and you can only volunteer one week at a time to limit any possible exposure to COVID-19. It feels a little risky, but I am healthy and it is a way I can be useful.

Meanwhile, I have also opened an online bookstore through Bookshop.org, a new venture that just launched in January, primarily as a way for small independent bricks-and-mortar bookstores to have a website, but also for authors and other lit lovers to buy and sell books. I have named my shop The Optimist, and its featured selections are books that I have personally enjoyed over the years--"timeless books and books for these times,"as I put it. I'm also featuring some of my photography on its pages. So if you are looking for a good read, please have a look. Your purchase will help me weather these tough times and it will benefit indie bookstores across the U.S., too.

Here are a few other things that got me through this week:

Long walks, as always. I average four miles a day.

Plenty of sleep

Lots of time to read (and spending a little less of it on the news and social media)

Mariners classics baseball, often accompanied by a solo game of Bananagrams

A concert-from-home by Josh Ritter

Online church each Sunday

Watching the classic movie Groundhog Day (An aside: It's only been a month or so, but I miss movies in the theater.)

I mentioned above that reality hit home this week, but here's something else we all know: As bad as this pandemic is right now, we will get through it. Stay safe, be well, and be kind. See you next Friday.

Another kind of food pantry. Pinehurst, Seattle, March 2020

Summer reading!

When I was a kid, I spent untold summer hours reading. It's been a long time since I've had that sort of luxury, but I've read a lot this summer. It's time for a book report.

What I'm reading now

My Seattle Public Library Summer Book Bingo card

This week, I went to the book launch for Seattle Walk Report: An Illustrated Walking Tour through 23 Seattle Neighborhoods. I showed up about 15 minutes before it started and found one of the last seats in a jam-packed Central Library auditorium--and then I was lucky enough to buy the last copy from a box of books brought in after the first batch had sold out!

The book's creator, Susanna Ryan, was "unmasked" at the event to her fans who'd previously known her only through her charming but anonymous Instagram posts. It felt like the best kind of meeting between the screens where we live so much of our lives and the three-dimensional "IRL" world. Susanna and her posts, and now her book, showcase the sort of quirky details that make a curious life worth living, online and on the streets.

I liked how she spoke about falling in love with walking. (Her longest trek was a 31-mile hike around the northern shores of Lake Washington!) Also notable: her pragmatism about social media. Yes, Instagram is owned by the morally suspect Facebook, but she wouldn't have a book in the world without it.

I didn't have a chance to get my book signed because the line was loooooong. But I'd love to hang out with Susanna someday and discuss our mutual love for libraries and aimless walks. (As she posted on her Instagram today, "I might also just start hanging out in Cal Anderson all the time, sitting by a tree and signing books for anyone who wants to swing by. I want to sign your book if it's the last thing I do!") Meanwhile, I was able to sidle up to Susanna's editor to introduce myself and my own nerdy passion project, Where to Read in the Rain. Ya never know ...

I'm also currently reading The House of Broken Angels by Luis Alberto Urrea, the saga of a Mexican-American family that is  ringing very relevant in our times. I'd previously read Urrea's Into the Beautiful North, and I look forward to checking out more of his work.

What else I've read this summer

More or less working backward over the past few months, I've enjoyed ... 

Why We Sleep. Matthew Walker makes the case for why we need eight hours every night and what we miss when we fall short. This book has made me think deeply about a subject most of us take for granted.

The Book of Delights. I love the premise of Ross Gay's book: pay attention. (That's akin to what Seattle Walk Reports does, too.) Gay makes it clear that not all is delightful in our world, but that there are plenty of surprising joys to behold.

The Baltimore Book of the Dead. I spotted this book by Marion Winik while looking for something else at my local library. It's a collection of anonymous mini-obits, mostly of people Winik knew, with lots of connective tissue between them.

The Overstory. One of the best novels I've read in a long time (and the winner of the Pulitzer Prize in that category for 2019), Richard Powers' epic is about resilience and resistance amid impending ecological doom, with a vast cadre of fully realized characters and plot twists galore. It's the most thought-provoking fiction I've read this year.

The Good Rain. I had wanted to read Timothy Egan's 1990 ode to the Northwest for a long time. I've been thinking and writing a lot lately about why I'm drawn to this region, and this book helped me realize that for all of our growth and human ingenuity, the Northwest is first of all a land of incredible and often daunting natural beauty. I'd love to see an updated edition with Egan's thoughts on how the region has evolved--and how its character has stayed constant--these past 30 years.

Lake City. Thomas Kohnstamm's novel is set largely in the Fred Meyer superstore of its gritty titular Seattle neighborhood, where I moved a dozen years after the book's just-past-9/11 setting (and where I still spend a lot of time--I was just there today). With memorable characters, Kohnstamm writes of a class divide that has only deepened in Seattle since the turn of the century.

Next up?

These books are on my to-read list for the rest of summer and into fall ... 

M Train by Patti Smith (and her next book, Year of the Monkey, due out this fall)

The Unsettlers by Mark Sundeen 

City of Girls by Elizabeth Gilbert

Educated by Tara Westover

Becoming by Michelle Obama

The Harry Potter books. We all need more magic in our lives, which is why I'm re-reading the whole series this year; I'm currently on Goblet of Fire, though I happily keep getting interrupted by library books I've had on hold.

Feet first

Giving walkers safe passage in Shoreline, WA

No, I didn't plan to walk six miles round trip to the movie theater yesterday. My intention was to walk there and take the bus back, but I stayed for all the credits and used the restroom afterward--and there was the bus I meant to catch, pulling away across the street just as I walked out the door. 

No worries. Having missed the bus, I decided to walk back a different way from the one I'd come--and on the way, I got to visit two new-to-me city parks and found and photographed some cool public art. (If you love street art, you might want to follow me on Instagram.) It was sunny and about 62 degrees. What could be better?

I'm currently researching a magazine article about people who are driving less to save money. There are so many options to forgo or supplement car ownership these days: transit, car sharing, ride hailing, bike sharing--and my very favorite (and the cheapest option), our own two feet.

After past experience in car-free living, I do have a car these days (thanks, Tom), but I go days without driving it. As a writer and editor, I mostly work from home, of course. I use my feet and the company-provided transit pass (thanks, Mariners) to get to my part-time job. I plan my ballpark commute and many of my errands around the five miles or so I try to walk every day, but the best walks of all can be aimless ones where I set off with only a vague idea of where I am going.

Plenty of factors keep people from walking as much as they'd like, but spring is a wonderful time to walk as much as you can, whether that's around the block or for many miles. The weather is wonderful and new life is blossoming everywhere you look. And yes indeed, I spent several hours of an ostensible workday going to a movie (the gorgeous Cold War) and walking there and back, but here's the thing about walking: If your work--or any part of your life--involves thinking, you can actually get a lot done on a walk. As I meandered, I mentally outlined the article I mentioned above, and I thought about contacts who can potentially help me find sources for several other projects. But mostly, I enjoyed the fresh air and the sunshine and the fact I wasn't stuck in a metal box on a glorious spring day. 

Walking is good!

Here's to the working people

That's most of us, right? I am going to work a bit today, but that's because I took an early holiday weekend Thursday through Saturday. Being my own boss means having the flexibility to time-shift my time off. But since today is Labor Day, I'm also thinking about the other people who are working today, especially in low-wage jobs and contract labor with no benefits.

I shy far away from politics these days, but today I want to salute organized labor. For two years (2010-2012), I worked alongside and on behalf of thousands of educators in Idaho during a time when they were fighting several pitched battles on behalf of their students and themselves. These were amazing people who put in long hours on their jobs as teachers and coaches and counselors, and who knew the power of spending a bit more time to organize and negotiate good working conditions, wages, and benefits for themselves and their colleagues.

Missouri voters recently said no to a "right-to-work-for-less" proposition on their ballot. This was one of the best developments for American working people in many years. Organizing takes time, people, and money. It's only fair that all the workers who benefit from the fruits of labor negotiations help pay for them.

Those of us who work for ourselves--who've created our own jobs--can take advantage of the Affordable Care Act (which was a brilliant job-creation bill) and grant ourselves time off as we need it. For teachers and nurses and police officers and firefighters and skilled craftspeople--not to mention retail and service and healthcare workers who need advocacy more than most--organizing is one way employers and employees can work together to be sure hard work is valued and recognized.

It'll be great if we can one day live in a world where all work--including the work of parenting and caregiving--were justly valued and fairly compensated, and where we all enjoy healthcare, paid time off, guaranteed retirement income, and the other rewards of hard work. Until then, happy day of remembering that unions built the American middle class and the 40-hour workweek. And don't forget to vote.

The core of discovery

Sometime soon,  a six-year-old boy named Henry and his dad will head west on the Oregon Trail--and I'll be their guide.

Well, sort of. As writer B.J. Hollars began preparing for this journey, he found a copy of my Oregon Trail book. As he writes on his work-in-progress website for Go West Young Man:

When selecting our guide, Henry and I go with what seems simple and practical.  Something that steers me clear of coordinates and paces and other pitfalls that might mean a world of trouble for a navigationally-challenged person such as myself.  Upon cracking wide Julie Fanselow’s Traveling the Oregon Trail, I know I’ve found my guide. 
Originally published in 1992, Julie’s account offers more than distances to destinations.  Interspersed throughout its more informational pages are glimpses of memoir, flashes of personal experience that bring her journey to life.  In its opening pages, I come across Julie’s most memorable moment on the Oregon Trail, which just so happens to have involved her six-year-old daughter.

B.J. reached out to me for a phone call about my experiences traveling on the trail, first on my own in the early 1990s and later that decade with my young daughter as I updated the book. I love B.J.'s recounting of our talk, which you can read here. Here's my favorite part:

As our conversation winds down, I relay to Julie the question Henry most wanted me to ask.
“How do you not get bit by a rattlesnake?”
She laughs.
“The key is seeing and hearing and being aware of your surroundings,” she says, explaining that this means keeping my attention on the moment rather than peering zombie-eyed at my phone or listening to the music in my ear buds.    
This seems like sound advice.
But there’s another key she tells me: we can’t let ourselves be afraid.
“Going out and seeing the world is the absolute most fun thing you can do,” she says.

Indeed. If I've learned anything in my life beyond the wonder of loving and being loved, it's this: Travel is by far the best way to spend your time and money, and it's both more possible and more important now than ever before.

It's possible because even if you're living with limited means, you can fly to another continent and back for a few hundred bucks; sleep in hostels or Airbnbs (with the occasional splurge on a modest hotel); and eat like the locals do, with farmers market food and trips to the grocery store. Or you can pack up the car like Henry and his dad will--or hop on a bus or train--and make memories with people you love.

It's important because we live at a time when people starting a trip hear "safe travels" more often than "bon voyage!" Simply put, travel trumps fear. It gets us out of our comfort zones and into places where we can witness our common humanity.  I could write for days about this, but I'll let Rick tell you more. Travel is at the core of discovery: of yourself and of our amazing world.

In another chapter of his pre-trip writings,  B.J. writes about playing the classic Oregon Trail computer game with Henry. Among the game's lessons: When shooting buffalo, "never kill more than you can carry." I don't have a gun when I travel (or anytime else, for that matter), so my trip motto is always "Never pack more than you can carry." That's another post. I'll write it soon.

Meanwhile, I'd like to bid Henry and his dad glad tidings for a memorable, meaningful journey--and leave you, dear reader, with my wish that you, too, will take a trip somewhere soon, even if you've just returned from one. Because going out and seeing the world is the absolute most fun thing you can do.

P.S. Traveling the Oregon Trail went out of print a few years ago, but there are still plenty of used paperback copies floating around--or you can buy the e-book version and I'll get a small royalty.  Either way, happy trails!

A good time and place to think

Late fall is here. It's getting dark early. This is the season where, up here in the far left corner, in America's most well-read city, many of us get ready to burrow into our books.

My sweetie and I started an Airbnb space a few months ago, and it was booked solid from summer into early fall. Fewer people travel to this part of the world in the rainy season, so we have lots of dates open on our calendar for the next few months.

Our place is close to Seattle but it feels far away from the city. It's modest but comfortable; my goal is for it to mirror the philosophy I write about here on Surely Joy, and for it to be a welcoming spot where you can rest, reconnect with nature, and hear yourself breathe.

Right now, we have a couple staying while they're in town on business; they have two weeks in our space for the cost of about three-and-a-half nights in a downtown Seattle hotel. But we also welcome people staying for long weekends or even just a couple of nights. And although no one but me has used it as a writer's retreat, I have a feeling others would enjoy it for that purpose, too.

Check it out if you need a place to stay near Seattle, or a place to rest and rejuvenate. If you're a first-time Airbnb user, use this link and you will save $40 on your first Airbnb stay of $75 or more. Thank You Gracias Merci Dank ~ Julie

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. 

Another chapter

Studio 360, the wonderful public radio arts-and-culture show, is asking listeners to make a Creative New Year's Resolution for 2016. Here's mine. I'll be sure to link to updates here, too, so you can follow along.

Another set of wheels (and another)

"Rent the car. Own the adventure." That's the motto for Turo, a sharing-economy private car rental site that had escaped my notice until the Seattle Times wrote about it this week.

I haven't owned a car for a few years now. Public transit and walking are my main modes of local transportation, but I'm a member of Zipcar and Car2Go; I hail the occasional Uber; and I rent from traditional car rental companies on occasion, especially out of town. Turo (formerly RelayRides) looks like an intriguing addition to the car-free person's toolkit, especially as an alternative to renting for a few days.

The sharing economy continues to become ever more interesting and useful. I rented an Airbnb rowhouse on Pittsburgh's Northside as a base for a working vacation this past summer. I had it all to myself, it cost a fraction of what it would have cost to stay in a hotel room for that long, plus I was able to live like a local. It's fun to help people earn a little money with their spare rooms or extra car, and it's a good way to stretch your travel budget and reduce your carbon footprint.

'Bigger just wears you out'

The New York Times did a story this week on how millennials favor microkitchens. Using Seattle as an example, Kim Severson writes about how aspirational tech-industry workers favor downsized kitchens that still have choice amenities like "expensive blenders, elaborate coffee makers and professional-quality knives." Many of them also have access to impressive communal kitchens such as the one local superstar chef Tom Douglas designed for the Via6 apartment building across the street from Amazon headquarters. (Douglas also has restaurants on the ground floor of this vertical neighborhood.) Adds Severson: 

The building was designed for a Zipcar generation that embraces a sharing economy, said Matt Griffin, the Seattle developer who came up with the concept for Via6. “Life becomes having access to it but not necessarily owning it,” he said. “If your kitchen is efficient, it doesn’t need to be that big. Bigger just wears you out.”

According to the article, an 860-square-foot apartment at Via6 rents for $3,379 a month. I know plenty of people -- especially two-income couples -- in Seattle's red-hot economy can afford such digs, and more power to them. But for many of us in modestly-paid occupations, "bigger just wears you out" can refer to the price tag a "big" career can exact just as easily as it can to the costs of owning "big" stuff.

I like to say that I live in Seattle's least-sexy neighborhood. My 1960s-vintage apartment (the same age as me!) costs significantly less than half the Via6 tab for a similarly sized unit. My home isn't fancy, but renting here gives me options -- for work, for travel, for rambling around a place that has plenty of room -- and when I want to go to the hip neighborhoods, they are a short bus ride away. It's the semi-affordable Seattle, complete with mismatched appliances and a genuine Mr. Coffee.