I still think often of the moment when my father died. It is not so heavy any longer. Such a stark change, sudden lifelessness. Despite how long it may have been coming, it was a shock.

My grandfather rode with me on an errand to Belfast today. Until today, I hadn’t made the connection between Belfast, Maine and Belfast, Ireland. Wikipedia says, from Irish: Béal Feirste, meaning “rivermouth of the sandbars.” I had to take the Ford into the dealership so they could eyeball the fuel tank straps as part of a recall. Since the tank fell out a few months ago, I have new straps so there wasn’t much to look at. Back later when Ford engineers some fancy new ones, I’m told.

Great stories were told. I’m so happy to be around my grandparents. As we drove, my grandfather pointed out the hill he chased his suitcase when the handle broke on a cold February day trying to return home from school in Portland. He talked of how his mother, from Deer Isle, would take the boat to Searsport for groceries. He told me about one day returning from Augusta in a state car in the winter and finding a lost dog in the road, about how he stayed and watched the dog for an hour while someone else went off to find someone in the neighborhood to take it in.

Stories about the sawmill! Oh the sawmill. Swoon.

“Not to keep talking about your father,” he says, “but we used to do a lot together. I really liked him.” He told me about putting hardwood floors down in the camp with my father in the dead of winter, eating beans, farting, and laying floor; keeping warm by the stove.

A few leaves in the backyard are starting to change color. The wind rustles up the rest of them as a light rain falls. As I walk to the kitchen for a cup of coffee, I look out all sides of the house; surrounded by trees. A stark change from living in the shadow of Boeing Field in Seattle, pausing conversations between the roar of passing jet aircraft. I consider hugging the house, but realize it is far too large for me to do so.

Yesterday was rough.

I think I finally caught up on sleep from the BRC/jet-lag, so it started out alright albeit late. Meeting day at work, which the kids call sprint planning, is dreadful. Mostly I screwed around with Skype trying to get a good idea of why the audio was stuttering. Burnt at the end of the day, I headed out of the house.

I stopped at the cemetery where my father is buried to sit and watch the sunset and have a cup of coffee. The neighbors dog barked at me the entire time.

Dinner with Kate and her parents was a welcome distraction.

Sleep was rough, and more wires got crossed in dreams than I could sort out. Eventually, wide awake, I told Kate stories of growing up here for an hour. It always starts small.

In a few hours I’ll be on a plane to Maine. I have a list of exciting projects to last the rest of my life there. P has mentioned multiple times, “you have such an interesting life.” I’m not sure how sustainable it is, but as M mentioned the other night, I can certainly afford it for the foreseeable future. Now, my room in Seattle is empty and old roommates are moving into it in a couple weeks. My childhood home in Surry awaits. Kate and I hang on the edge of discussing projects and plans in Maine. My family anxiously awaits my return.

Six years. Oh, so much. As I measure life in six month increments, six years is many lifetimes. Once I’m settled, J and I may continue talking regularly via skype. When I consider this, I’m reminded of our hundreds of hours of conversation. I just was reading an article about how our brains can be rewired to disassociate traumatic events from triggers by recalling them and then replacing the memories with better ones actively. This makes much sense to me.

I’ve only had a wink or two of sleep tonight, which can’t be good as I’m still recovering from sleep deprivation at Black Rock. Mom asked me what my plans were once I got home, and I told her to spend quiet time with Kate and catch up on sleep. Then, continue work on the garage. My anxiousness kept me awake, but now my body is trying to shut down. I’m feeding it coffee and Tums now. Within an hour, I’ll be on my way to the airport for a 5:15am departure.

Home. Or well, back in Seattle. Saturday I head home to Maine.

I adapt to another life in Black Rock. Living for weeks in the desert, eating in the commissary, showering in the shower trailer. Working in the dust, sleeping in the back of the Suburban, with occasional trips to get out of the city. A couple friends and I watched the Saturday burn from outside the city and a few folks without tickets to the event were shocked that we were out there by choice.

When I was leaving, F asked if P was coming with me and said that we were cute together. I couldn’t comprehend a response. With all the time that P and I spent together, it was a reasonable assumption to make. But what happens at Burning Man, happens in an alternate, nearly schizophrenic world. It doesn’t stay there, it isn’t separable. At times it seems to stay physically, but events still cause ripples outward in time.

As I stop and redraw my life; consider what paths it will take, I’ve been thinking about how different it could be, how circumstantial it is on my intimate partnerships and on their lives. I recall trying to convince L that I wanted to support her, and her misinterpreting that as my wanting her to “cry on my shoulder.”

This is the end of a period of my life in Seattle. 2011 has undoubtedly been a year of transitions. Having Burning Man form a corner of that change only serves to make it more abstract, with jagged loose ends comprising of threads made up of compassion.

What would life have been like if L hadn’t run off? Who knows. What if Burning Man wasn’t such a temporary life? Everything continues to underscore how complex life is, and find peace with that.

On a somewhat related news, I’ve been considering starting a charitable foundation. That just feels absurd, but I have the resources to do so. Notably, I’m only considering it. While I’m confident I could do so, I have to humbly laugh at myself for not watching TV instead.