Yo, homies

The last day of the year, I lost my wallet. I think that was somehow fitting on several levels.

It reduced me to a level of depending on others with which I am rather uncomfortable. It also forced me to go through the mental exercises of letting go of something that *feels* very important but actually isn't all that. (Still, I'm bummed to lose that lovely leather wallet.)

Because I didn't want to be pulled over and found without a drivers license, I was also forced to drive no more than 5 mph over the speed limit -- on those rare stretches of interstate that were free flowing enough to do so, as I did rush hour across the entire stretch from north of Everett to just outside of Olympia, Washington (a huge swath of the drive).

And with the loss of my wallet was also the loss of a drivers license photo that was *much* more flattering than the replacement I received today.

S2 commented that the loss of the wallet almost seemed representative of a loss of identity. And that the loss of all my cash and plastic was "sending me back to the womb." (Of course, she laughed maniacally when she said this, but in some respects, she had a point.)

In the vein of the whole start-of-a-new-year thing, I like to note that I lost my wallet at about 4 o'clock on New Year's Eve -- that such a symbolic loss came at the end of *that* year, rather than at the beginning of *this* one.

When up at the cabin, I had plenty of time to think, as I knew I would.

I also had time sit on a comfy adirondak, cacooned and cozy my sleeping bag, read "The God of Small Things" and fall into a 3-hour-long state of blissful drowsiness in which I sometimes slept and other times watch the rain moving across the lake, the fog rolling in and out and the clouds climbing up the hills while listening to the drip-drip from boughs of the cedars around the cabin.

But there was, in and out, here and there, all sorts of little epiphanies. I saw my breakup in a new light. And with my nightly fireside reading of Irvin Yalom's "The Gift of Therapy" and Harrier Lerner's "The Dance of Intimacy," I also made some interesting perspective shifts on several other relationships in my life, probably including you. Yes, you. And you, too. But not you, don't worry.

I did some work re-envisioning the life plan that's gone MIA in the past several months. In fact, the more and more I think about it, the more inclined I feel to look into an internship with hospice or some other organization devoted to dealing with grief and loss. Aside from my own experience and a substantial depth of empathy for the topic, it also seems to be a natural fit for that little passion I'm developing for narrative therapy. At what time do we start trying to weave healing stories more than when we've suffered a substantial loss, especially a death?

Of course, I'm all about that sex and sexuality stuff, too. I'm not sure how I'm going to work with that, but things may come into better focus there over the next year. I've got couples and sexuality classes on the horizon. No telling what doors will present themselves for opening there.

Also, I reaffirmed the value I place on living in a city that has quick access to forests and lakes and mountains, to hikes in forested parks and short trips to the ocean. I am not completely anchored, but Portland is the kind of town I want to call home for a long, long time.

On that note, I *loved* Vancouver. LOVED IT. There is water everywhere. Harbors harbors harbors. Beautiful parks. Nice neighborhoods. Great shopping districts. A vibrant gay scene. Good food. The high percentage of sushi joints was encouraging, and the Indian food looked like it might be good. My friends have meat-and-potato palates, however, so that brought me face to face with a fabulous beef tenderloin topped by a large medallion of seared froie gras. *Delicious*.

The only downside to the city is the obscene number of Starbucks. At one point walking through West Vancouver, I found myself thinking of "Best in Show" and that scene where the couple with the Weimaraner talk about how they met because they went to Starbucks across the street from each other. I was standing at just such an intersection there.

I counted the number of Starbucks in the Vancouver white pages. There were 157. Not enough alternatives on the coffee there, folks! (I hate going to Starbucks and being corrected on my order of a cafe au lait with soy by someone in a green apron saying, "You mean a soy misto?" One of the Canadian Starbucks girls told me she'd "never heard that term before." Cafe au lait?! Jesus.

Every city has its shortcomings....

Vancouver, BC, nevertheless, is a marvelous one. If I have to run away from my status as a citizen of these United States, it's the first place I'd consider moving. (Or maybe the second, after some tropical, warm-water locale.) I love Canadians, and not just because I'm descended of them. They're really friendly.

Anyway, for the time being, I'm defining myself as a lover and fan of the Pacific Northwest. This region has called to me in mythological ways since I was a child. And I'm always impressed when it lives up to that mythology, as it does in the rainforest around the cabin. Now that I'm here, I intend to stay a while. S2 said today that my life -- having been carried out in nine different cities in Florida, South Carolina, Texas, California and Oregon -- has been like a prolonged "walkabout." Too true. In fact, Portland is the place I have lived longest. Good thing the world is big enough that my walkabout need never come to an end -- at least, not until *I* do.

But I've decided: This is home.