Sonoma

Note: Two Weekends


I woke up two Saturdays ago with the ocean in mind, so off we drove to the Sonoma Coast, where we passed beaches with names like Salmon Creek, Goat Rock, Portuguese and Schoolhouse. Of all the new neighbors this move has introduced, these beaches are by far my favorite, and I hope they will tolerate my frequent and unannounced visits. The ocean was loud, its waves wild, which I bet means catching it on a good day, in high spirits. Grays, blues and whites intertwined to create a palette familiar to those who have spent a winter in California.
 
The following weekend, last weekend, we headed west once more. The subject of octopuses has lingered on my mind since reading and then re-reading The Soul of an Octopus, so off we drove 170 miles to Monterey, to go see one. The Monterey Bay Aquarium has several species of octopus on exhibit, but as with siblings and seasons and most everything else, a clear favorite quickly emerged. The Day Octopus was mesmerizing, stretching itself to its full length, plastering itself onto the glass, and changing color and texture on the fly. It was clearly showing off for us spectators – alone in its tank, without the bleating commands of trainers – which I thought generous and kind. How special that it puts forth such effort. Does it care what we think? We responded approvingly, with exclamations of awe and clicks of the camera.
 
The trip to Monterey confirms books to be reservoirs of ideas waiting to inspire our lives, often in the simplest of ways; like when I tell a friend a bee won’t sting her if she sends it love because “every little thing wants to be loved” (The Secret Life of Bees), or recommending a chicken sandwich and a glass of milk to someone in distress (Franny). I save songs referenced in books so that that gems like Rachmaninoff’s “Prelude in G Minor, Opus 23” (All My Puny Sorrows) and Yusef Lateef’s “The Plum Blossom” (The Light of the World) boldly slip into an otherwise humble music collection. If reading just a few books can inspire habits or playlists or weekend outings, surely reading hundreds of books can eventually inspire a life, and what is yet to be discovered excites me endlessly.
 
Best, Yuri
@yuriroho

Note: Mid-January

Tiny efforts here and there have made the difference in settling into the new home. Like a new calendar, fresh flowers, and endless cups of peppermint tea. In the spirit of cultivating new habits and routines for the new year, I’ve subscribed to the New York Times, and I must say that it is bizarre to have the day’s world news printed on paper and dropped off at my doorstep before I am even out of bed. It creates the illusion that the world is patient and its news finite; things happen, and when they do, we have a 24-hour window to pause, read and think, until we receive further word the next day. It also gives the paper an air of authority, seeming to assure readers that it is indeed the irrevocable news on record, which is perhaps an attitude to be suspicious of. News read online feels like a mere suggestion, one of infinity, which I suppose is worthy of suspicion as well.
 
In what feels like days we have reached mid-January, assuring me that the speedy passage of time was not unique to 2015, the erroneous conclusion I draw about each passing year. As there is every reason to expect another swift one, I feel inspired, or more so challenged, to approach each day wisely. Though the beginning of the year generously offers a chance to reflect on what that may mean and plan accordingly, mid-January seems to be the time to wrap up such prep work and simply begin doing. I fear that I tend to linger in the planning phase of any given goal, unknowingly settling for the pleasure of anticipation rather than that of accomplishment. But 2016 seems to be asking more of me, of all of us, and I am prepared to oblige. Cheers to this quickly passing, and oh so wonderfully rainy, start of the year.
 
Best, Yuri
@yuriroho

Note: December


This year’s December invites the mixed emotions that often accompany the end of one chapter and the beginning of the next. After three years in Berkeley, James and I have moved 50 miles north to Sonoma County. Our new home sits quietly on a short stretch of land, a far cry from our tiny Berkeley studio, which a friend once generously called the “quintessential in-your-20s apartment.”
 
I’m curious to discover a new day-to-day, to begin tracing familiar routes and establishing go-to spots. Of course, what is a 50-mile move? I have made much farther leaps, over land and sea, in the past. But having moved so many times while growing up, I’ve learned that once you have a day-to-day, once you’re immersed in any kind of familiar, it doesn’t really matter how many cities, states or countries you’ve crossed. Where you come from always feels far away. Besides, if our lives are simply made up of the various random items that fill every 24-hour window, then indeed the smallest of changes can result in the entirely new. Through all of the bittersweet emotions wrapped up in moving, logic never fails, and logic says every experience only informs the next, and I’m very eager to see how informative this new one is.
 
As I reflect on 2015, one of my biggest regrets surfaces when I realize how many books I missed this year. What did 2015 in books look like, feel like? The single perk of a largely unproductive year in reading, that is, the perk of waiting until December to survey the year’s offering in books, is that major honors like the Pulitzer Prize and the National Book Award have already been bestowed. The winners and finalists are promised to be the very best of all that was published in 2015, albeit in the United States, and I’m putting some faith in that. I’m using this and this as guides for the year’s final to-read list. It’s time to catch up! Better late than never, I hope.
 
Best, Yuri
@yuriroho