I Left My Heart in Seattle

From the Pages of My Journal: Seattle, empty nesting, and aging

I am sitting in a Seattle hotel room, in the chair by the window. Though we are in nice hotel, the chair smells musty and slightly of sweat, and I try not to think about what might have happened on it in the past. It is early morning and the sun is shining on the high-rise buildings making them glow iridescent, like the inside of the oysters that float in the waters nearby.

The streets are quiet. This is not New York; it is obvious that Seattle is a city that does sleep. Or more likely, it is a city that hikes. If the stereotypes of the Pacific Northwest are true, the inhabitants aren’t tucked in their beds sleeping the morning away but instead are climbing volcanoes, hiking through dense, evergreen forests, or watching the sunrise from the banks of hidden, clear, lakes.

In a few hours, my husband and I will walk through downtown, to the edge of the Puget Sound, to Post Alley, just above Pike Place Market, to meet our daughter for brunch. We’ll eat at The Pink Door and listen to her stories about her new college roommates. Then we will drive home, leaving our daughter in that big city alone.

I will hug her tight before we leave and then watch her walk towards the light rail station, I will watch until she is swallowed up by the crowds of people on the street and I can’t see her anymore, and hope that my whispered spells of protection will keep her safe during another year of college, another year of big-city life.

My husband and I will walk up the steep hills of the city to get into our car, so empty now, everything we brought with us (including her) left in a dorm room. We will drive south and, once again, spend the next nine months trying to find the people we once were-that young, adventurous couple, before we had a child.

Last year, we were shocked to discover that those personas were not so easily found and that, when we caught a glimpse of them, they seemed to no longer fit into our aged bodies. This year, we vow to start over, adapting to the new reality of being fifty-somethings who are, in many ways, blazing our way into the next stage of life, just like our daughter.

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Lasagna at The Pink Door

At the Check-out Desk

I’ve been thinking a lot about how I’m sharing my writing lately. Last year, I held myself to a strict schedule of posting weekly. When I returned from my August sabbatical, I planned on posting twice month, to give myself time to actually write short stories and personal essays to submit for publication. I have already missed a week, and I beat myself up about it.

In my defense, I had a lot going on, but I did manage to write a draft. The thing is, I just didn’t think it was ready to be published. So I didn’t. And you know, it felt it good. I gave myself a pass, reminded myself that my deadlines are self-imposed and went to Seattle.

While writing my morning pages, the above essay came pouring out. I liked it enough to share it with my husband and while I was reading it aloud to him, I teared up so much that I had to stop a few times. And that’s when I thought it might actually be a piece I should share because maybe some of you can identify with this mess of midlife/empty nesting. And I want my writing to make you feel less alone.

What I don’t want to do is put up a post just because I’ve made up a deadline. You are busy, your attention is being pulled in a million directions, I don’t want to add to the noise. So, for right now, you will get a post when I have something to send you that makes my heart sing. I hope it makes you feel the same way when you read it. Thanks for reading.

More Seattle

Want to read more about the city that is quickly becoming like a second home to me? Try this post about a hidden bookshop my daughter and I stumbled into one day.