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As the palm trees came into focus like angry splinters waving in the heat, I knew I was home. Over the course of the last decade, I have made this land where all kinds of differences collide my place of solace.  Decades are markers of sorts the older you get and I had just returned to Southern California after my 10 year reunion in the Pacific Northwest. It seems like it went by so fast, these 10 years, and I had lived most of them in this dry place where on one side of town it is littered with the small world of movie stars and fancy cars and the other where I dwelt.  That side of town wrestled with issues like social justice, grace, true love, and it is where I felt Jesus show up for the first time in my short life.

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It's July, yet June gloom lingers in the San Gabriel Valley.  As I woke up this morning, subconsciously I pulled a gray shirt over my head.  I realized I am trying to sympathize with the clouds. Everyone, well most Californians, hate that the clouds remain in July as they fantasize about baking on famous beaches. However, today it reminds me of home in the Northwest.

I've been thinking of "home" a lot lately. Probably because my high school reunion is this weekend. The past few weeks I have truly embodied June gloom - a looming gray murkiness over the impending event. Stories from my current friends haunt me as they say their ten year was the worst due to everyone feeling the pressure to prove something or show-off. I don't know... I've never done this before.  So I'm trying to see through the gray, and make something of it, but it's hard.

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At 30,000 feet the world looks like an ant farm. Paths are carved out, territories staked and there are little tiny movements making it all possible. And I am not part of it. For two hours, I have no where to be but right here in the in-between.

I'm leaving behind one of my most sacred places. Every summer I cut ties with most of my life's accessories and travel to a contemplative prayer retreat in the Northwest. I put my email on vacation responder, I leave my computer at home, and I look forward to this place where my cell phone gets no reception. Each day of this week is spent in four hours of silence with 20 other dear souls. As June draws near every year, I crave this time.

It's hard to explain everything that happens there. In the disconnect, I find connection. My soul can speak and sing, my food tastes better and I'm able to be present to all that's around me. In Southern California I can seek these things out, but the culture does not promote it. I have to fight sometimes to make room for my soul.

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It was different this time. There was no fanfare; no white dress; no aisle. There was a tiny bit of planning and we were on a beach, but one that was about as far away as possible from the first time without leaving the country.

I wore sweatpants. My hair was pulled back after a day spent in the sun. We ate fried clams and caprese salad on a bench. Our entertainment was watching one of the most extraordinary sunsets I have ever seen.

When the sun finally sank for a rest behind the glorious watercolor it left behind, people began to turn their backs and head home. We stayed.

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My husband gave me a cast iron pan for Christmas.  It's back-to-the-future at our home as this past winter we established our little urban farm.  We are trying to do as much as we can on our homestead which includes seven vegetable beds, six chickens, and making as much from scratch as we can (including body scrub and chicken stock).  As spring manifests itself I finally mustered up the courage to experiment with the new skillet. I figured that I can try to join the ranks of thousands of years of fabulous cooks.

We seasoned it (a process I will not detail here). We made bacon in it.  We roasted a chicken with maple syrup and balsamic vinegar. It was great.  However, I began to notice as we cleaned it that the seasoning (a coating) was coming off.  I frantically ran to my anxiety engine (I mean Google) and typed in various versions of "cast iron skillet coating coming off."  As I read through various sites' responses, I was caught off guard by the secret society I had unknowingly entered into.

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As I listen to my washing machine that is about as old as I am rattle and shake, I too woke this morning a little rattled and shaken.  The past few weeks I have written a bit on self-care: How it makes you aware; it brings you to a deeper place within yourself and it makes you care.

You see, when you know you are loved, then you can't help but love your neighbor. You know the shame you carry, your guilt, the dark parts of your soul and even with that you can still experience love.  However, there are people wandering around this morning that have a lot of love lost.  Instead of recognizing their own fear and shame they are trying to conquer it and run over others.

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I'm still processing what happened this past weekend. I can't put everything into words and I don't think I'm supposed to. But the word that keeps coming to mind as a descriptor is belonging. The woman caught in the act of adultery set the stage for our retreat. She was alone, living up to a society's definition of who she was supposed to be. Ripped out of bed -- the man playing the victim no where to be found -- dragged to the new teacher in town. "What say you?" They demanded.

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I sat down to write today and couldn't find a good starting place.  So I'll start there. I knew the concepts of what I wanted to write about this week: Self-care = intimacy and that I have found intimacy with myself and God through contemplative prayer. I am on a journey of getting to know the self that God wants me to be which is all tangled up in the world around me.... so yeah, I'll just go ahead and jot all that down in a quick blog.  (insert ironic laugh here)

I thought of writing about the fake intimacy that Facebook and the world of technology provide; of the addictions that are haunting our families and communities because people can't find places that will help them become who they are supposed to be. We have become so enmeshed in what family members and friends want from us. The subconscious expectations from youth stomp on our heads so much so that our feet become anchored and can't move. But then I thought, there I go again, going off on technology and using it in order for this message to be heard.

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