There’s this fantastic thing that happens whenever I fly into Seattle at night.
The approach is always from the southeast, and I start watching for the city about 25 minutes before landing, as soon as the captain announces “our initial descent.” Pretty soon, the orange lights begin to twinkle in the distance. We fly over the mountains and the rivers and the black, lightless voids that are the big lakes, until finally, the city is below. I find Wallingford. I find my old college. I find Lake Union and the 520 bridge and the big orange cranes by the piers, and the black, spindly Columbia Tower in miniature.
And my heart sings. I love Seattle.
When I landed, I had no less than SIX messages from my Seattle family, wondering if I was here yet. You know that feeling of being wanted? Being known? Being loved? While I have always known that I am loved by my friends and family, I have spent the past 4 months in relative anonymity, moving every couple of days, never staying in one place for too long. So to have SIX messages from those who love me was extra, extra special.
I have never been one to love a big gaggle of girls. I was not in a sorority, I’ve never lived “in community” with a bunch of other women – and thank God, really. Who wants to synchronize menstrual cycles?
However, I have always had some close, amazing, individual girl friends. Last night, I found myself in a room with four of my best.
And I realized: I am a member of a gaggle of girls.
The fabulous Ms. Mary Hiemstra (my style and etiquette guru) and me:
Me, and the life partner (hotness personified) Ms. Miranda Drost:
I felt loved and happy. Seattle does that to me.