Falling Into Place

The subtle sign of autumn began peeking through this past Friday afternoon in Anaheim.
It’s one I recognized from my many years of living in Southern California: a softer glow of sunlight filtering in through the window panes. Fall has arrived with little fanfare. There was no celebratory sendoff of summer and welcoming in the new season. No crisp air aside from the air conditioner that’s still cooling our apartment. And no community announcement of nature’s call-to-action to hunker down and rest.

My nervous system wants a word with your manager, SoCal.

I knew, everyone knew, that when we left the Pacific Northwest in April, I’d regret moving back down before the first pumpkin spice latte even finished brewing. And on this particular day, as I again started to moan about missing autumn in Oregon, my daughter, Emilia (who recently turned ten years old), cut me off.

“Can you please stop talking about moving back to Corvallis, and let’s just enjoy the time we’re here.”

Emilia, like her parents and (much older) siblings, was born in Southern California; however, she was raised in Oregon beginning at the age of three. And she very much has the wild + free personality of a child who has grown up in the wide open spaces.

As I jumped up and down, applauding her maturity, I exclaimed, “That’s exactly what I’m blogging about right now!”

My entire household, cats included, acknowledges that our hearts are in the heart of the Willamette Valley — Corvallis, Oregon. But we all know, excluding the cats, that many things would need to align before packing up yet another moving van. So in the meantime, I moan. No, I won’t. At least not within earshot of Emilia.

There is a speed in which life travels down here that is simply at odds with the slow-living that has taken root in my soul the last seven years. The California, laid-back, tied-dye, point-of-view just sounds like a bunch of hocus pocus now. But I need to find a way to co-exist (in a meaningful way) until we can make our exit. And that’s denial. No, it’s not. It’s using my imagination.

Before moving closer to the Oregon Coast, we spent a few years in the mountain resort town of Bend, Oregon. Located in the high desert of Central Oregon, Bend is home to the world-destination ski mecca, Mt. Bachelor, which is part of the spectacular Cascade Range that stretches from Northern California to British Columbia. We moved to Bend in the spring of 2019, and when our next door neighbors introduced themselves, they immediately told us how to start getting things in order in August in anticipation for winter. As someone who’d never even touched snow before, all this went over my head, but we heeded their advice just in time to wake to our first wintry wonderland…in September. And ever since then, I have reveled in the ritual of preparing for a seasonal reset.

And just when it appeared the tradition was canceled for this year, along comes a potential historic El Niño event.

Much like fires, earthquakes, and high-speed pursuits, El Niño and La Niña cycles have always been part of our Southern California culture. However, rarely do they ever live up to the initial hype. In fact, the last most destructive El Niño storm occurred here 44 years ago (when I was seven years old)! But this one in the forecast has, as the kids say, major pick-me vibes.

You may be asking yourself, “How does creating a daily rhythm around the possibility of rain of biblical proportions help with self-regulation?” Allow me to elaborate. I used to help run an Emergency Room. I thrive in hypothetical and actual chaos. Planning (and implementing those plans, if needed) for the worst case scenario brings me a sense of calm. The El Niño of 2026/27 has given me a purpose. I need to vacuum.

Taking into consideration gas prices, beach erosion, flooding streets, killer mosquitoes, and a tight budget, we’re going to be staying close to home. So I want to make sure our living space is cozy. To be honest, I don’t feel comfortable in our place at all. If you’ve followed me on my socials for any amount of time prior to us moving back to California, you would probably agree that I take great pride in organizing and decorating a house to make it feel like a home. And I admit, so not the case here. We unpacked and didn’t give it much more thought for months.

Bend, Oregon has an elevation of 3,623 feet (1,104 meters) above sea level. Not medically considered high altitude, but baking sure does. I experienced high elevation sickness throughout our entire time there. I would leave the house and instantaneously feel pressure in my head to the point of having to sit down or go back indoors. The severity of the symptoms subdued over time, but even after two years, any time I stepped outside I would get lightheaded. But it didn’t even come close to the brain fog that made me feel completely dissociated during the first five months back in Southern California. Finally, one day I looked around and wondered, “How did I get here?”

The answer to that is for another post. But for now, Emilia’s request echoes in my ears: “Can we just enjoy the time we’re here?” So I intend to document my progress with you, as a way to keep myself accountable, intentional, and perhaps, a little bit inspirational in case someone else is in this season of their life, as well.