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My bedroom is lit with a glow I rarely get to see since I leave early for work during the week and on Saturdays, I’m hurrying out to yoga class. Only on Sunday do I get to linger in bed and enjoy the sun slipping into my room. But today, with a cup of tea at my side and the dog (after a brief walk in the bitter cold) cuddled up beside me, is Thursday – Thanksgiving – and I am appropriately grateful for this sweet opening to the day. It’s quiet. No one seems to be going anywhere so even I-95’s perpetual hum, as constant as a river, is strangely silent. Tip: if you have to go somewhere for Thanksgiving leave early on Thursday.

Molly and I walk across the street later to share the day and what is always a magnificent meal, with neighbors who are like family. This is the holiday I like best – getting together to share a meal, no gifts – just eating with pleasure and catching up with each other and the now adult, kids.

This year, I’m strangely possessed by a festive spirit, at least as far as decorating goes. I’m usually a grinch about it all but I’ve already hung wreaths with twinkly lights. After 21 years of grouchiness I’ve blamed on the exhaustion of working in retail-overdrive, I am ready to embrace it, viewing the enhanced energy of the season as excitement rather than hysteria. I don’t know what’s come over me and can’t guarantee it will last.

Not to over-analyze my jolly-ness but I am feeling the contrast of last year when I was so damn sad. From the time of Rob’s death in October through the end of December, I felt swallowed by grief that surprised me with its depth and weight. We had not spoken in a few months. He’d moved out nearly two years earlier after I finally admitted that I could not pull him out of his darkness. I’d already lost him, I knew that – yet the finality and awfulness of his death hit me like a gut punch.

Someone mentioned it was probably cumulative grief. His demise in so many ways mirroring my husband’s. A year later I am happy, although the roller coaster of grief, anger, bewilderment and questions have not completely disappeared. Time on a couch gave me some insight that helped me but what ultimately cracked my mourning darkness last December, was almost weird.

Wanting to spend the last of my FSA money, I scheduled a series of acupuncture treatments. The woman talked non-stop, asking me questions about myself that she seemed to already know the answer to, rattling off facts about nature, time, space peppered with Eastern wisdom while slipping needles into different parts of my body. I told her I was aching because the man I’d loved had died so sadly. She threw up her hands and said, ‘Are you kidding? He’s having a grand time, off celebrating in the universe! He’s fine!’ And somehow, I wept with what felt like relief, and I believed her. Like that, the cloud of profound grief lifted and has mostly, stayed away.

A year later, with the shift of planets and reminders of the past, bringing me into the darkest days of the season, I hang little lights around my house, burn a fire in the stove, and embrace the night, marveling at the moon through leafless trees. I imagine all that joy happening in the distant universe and I feel it right here.

Last Sunday, I knocked on the doors of complete strangers. I left the warmth of my wood stove because I’d committed to volunteering a few hours to getting the vote out. I headed out to the Democratic Headquarters where the young and eager staff downloaded an app on my phone that gave me a street-by-street map of the neighborhood I’d be canvassing. Addresses included names, ages and voter affiliation of residents – with each house on my app with at least one Democrat resident.

At 3:00 PM it was cold and windy in the unfamiliar neighborhood assigned to me in my city of roughly 88,000 residents. The streets were empty and at house after house almost no one opened the door. I get it. I hate when people ring my bell. It’s never a good time. My mind, my beliefs, have never been changed by a stranger on my doorstep. So what was I thinking? Honestly, I acted on the impulse that I had to do SOMETHING.

Being the good girl that I am, I did my best to complete my assignment of visiting about 40 houses. A few doors did open and politely accepted my literature for the local Democratic candidates. One man was even enthusiastic. But finally, when one of the rare white guys on my list with an Irish name and a hipster beard to boot, opened his door just long enough to bark “NO!” at me before slamming it, I packed it in. Knocking on doors is not for me.

However, I did take the day off so I can drive people to the polls on election day.

I did this in 2016 and delivered 7 votes for Hilary. Unlike door-knocking, it was very rewarding. The voters were fellow city residents, all 70 and older, all but one, African American. Almost all of them had moved up from the South in the 1950s – part of the Great Migration. I loved hearing their stories.

A man without any teeth, reeking of alcohol but wearing a crisp, white shirt was beaming after casting his vote. He told me it was the first time he’d ever voted. I couldn’t help asking how he missed voting for Obama? But I could guess. His wife had trouble walking and remained in the car (FYI: ballot will be brought to the car by an election official if you can’t make it inside) and we’d been commiserating about loving someone with addiction. And anyway, he’d voted this time. I wonder will he bother again?

Another woman reached into her pocket when we got back to her place and I was afraid she was going to try and pay me but instead, she handed me a mint wrapped in plastic. I kept it on my dresser for months – a sweet reminder of the inspiring part of that day and that despite the outcome, we’d done our part.

I won’t knock on doors but after these past two years, after this awful week — eleven Jewish elders including Holocaust survivors, gunned down with an assault rifle while they gathered in their synagogue, two African Americans – both beloved grandparents, out shopping, murdered by a racist in Kentucky, assassination attempts made on leaders and journalists — I must do something. This is a fight for our lives. Let me know if you need a lift to the polls.

I used to consider myself a good traveler, moving comfortably through the world while sleeping in less than stellar beds, trying all different foods, figuring stuff out on the fly. While I’m not quite ready to give up that notion about about myself, I am a different kind of traveler than I was in my youth. I know this because a week ago I returned from a 10 day trip to Ireland and England and I’m still exhausted.

Some things are easier now – like packing. My vanity has diminished over the decades so I have no problem limiting my wardrobe to the bare minimum. For this trip I focused on comfort and warmth although I confess I did sacrifice a little comfort for slightly cooler looking shoes. A small wheeled carry-on with wheels was perfect for everything.

This trip was really about reconnecting with family while having some adventures with Molly. A return to Ireland for the first  since I was 18 and a first visit for Molly. She fell in love with Dublin. A highlight was connecting with family I had not seen since crashing their wedding more than 40 years ago. Thanks to social media, we’d reconnected in cyber space and thanks to this trip, our connection became real.

On our first rainy day we wandered the streets of Dublin clocking 10 miles of exploring, stopping in to dry at Bewley’s – a sweet haven where we were welcomed with beautiful tea, pastries and a seat by the fire.

The next day, we took my cousin’s suggestion and took the Cliff Walk – a stunning, sometimes dizzying hike along the coast. As we walked through Bray towards the start of the cliffs I scanned the houses for a garret where I imagined I might live. I could look out at the changing horizon and write, paint, walk by the ocean everyday. The cliff hike was magnificent. A fierce wind blew (appropriately) at our backs, pushing us forward past fields of heather, massive stones, the waves and yes, even a rainbow.

In London we stayed with Jane, one of my dearest friends who lives almost at the end of the North Line. Again, I imagined myself on a longer stay in another garret. Her husband came in from a run and told us about the cows he passes on his route. Yes, somewhere close enough to the thrum and jazz of a great city but far enough out to meet a cow. All on the tube line.

We headed to the West Midlands where we met up with the girls – Neil’s older daughters – who I claim as mine too, Molly’s sisters – and the rest of the beautiful family they’ve created between them. Our beautiful family. This trip renewed that for us – especially Molly. Raised across the ocean as, but not really, an only child. Watching Molly embrace her sisters made me weep. It had been 7 years.

Walking through the little villages that look like a set out of Midsomer Murders (I imagined where the bodies might be found as we passed through the woods alongside the river) I thought about watching the weather change across the fields and always having good tea to drink.

So here’s what I figured out from this trip – my first travels in a long time. I prefer to spend time in one place. I like to get to know a neighborhood with a space to claim as mine for a time. To look out a window at the same view but for the changing light or maybe even a season or two. That’s how I have fallen in love with other places around the world. I made them, at least for a time, my home.

Kyoto was my longest consecutive stint so I will always long for her streets, the river, the mountains – in that strange homesick way that is unique to anyone who has ever been an expat. Italy is another place I long for (because who doesn’t?) since it’s where I gave birth to Molly. I certainly lived like an Italian as I clocked in the weeks with other new mothers of premature babies in Brindisi Hospital. Thinking about my time in Bosnia and Croatia – is like remembering a lover who broke your heart – a bit painful – such a profoundly complicated relationship. It’s where my star-crossed marriage began appropriately amidst that awful war and so much sadness. I should, I want to – visit one day again, to see that land in peace. But it would be a journey, not a vacation. I need more than 10 days for that.

In fact, I think my days of Eurail passes and quick nights in cities, are done. Infatuation is fun but falling in love takes time and that interests me more. Here’s something that captures my imagination — being an international pet and house sitter. A way of being elsewhere in the world. That’s the kind of traveler I am now. One who wants to stay put for a time, to get to know a community, maybe a language, the food, the people. What better way to do that than walking a dog?

Sometimes I think that armchair travel is enough for me and there are certainly many great books and travel blogs. One of my favorites is Picnic at the Cathedral This smart and hysterically funny writer and her husband (a good sport) go to quirky places, take great photos, and include food, drink and room descriptions. For adults on a budget. That would be me.

What kind of traveler are you?

Parking was impossible near my launch spot on this perfect summer Sunday, so I left my kayak in the sand and asked a friendly looking couple to keep an eye on it while I parked my car. Around and around I drove.  I ended up in a lot next to the volleyball, bocce courts and skatepark, a bit of a jaunt back to my boat.

I pushed off with a sigh. Choppy water made covering any real distance a challenge but I’m not an ambitious paddler. It’s really about getting away from land, seeing a different view of my usual world while being buffeted by gentle waves.

Tide was going out and a favorite sandbar was emerging. A wave heaved my kayak onto the gravel. Perched on my plastic boat, I ate a plum, let the water churn around my ankles, searched the broken sea shells for treasures and then, just sat. After a time, I climbed back in and paddled slowly back to shore.

My kayak guardians were still there. I offered them a turn while I went and got my car. She declined and pointing to the sling on his arm, he said he’d end up going in circles. I left my boat under their watchful eye and went to retrieve my car.

Now most people, when they’re parked in the big lot next to the skate park, volleyball and bocce courts, go left when they’re exiting because they’re leaving the beach. But I had to retrieve my boat so needed to take a right and go to the loop of parking where the launch is. Going in that direction is certainly less common in that lot, but it’s definitely allowed. But a bruiser in a gigantic jeep (“RHINO!” writ large in front in case it didn’t look intimidating enough) insisted I was not allowed – and drove at me gesturing like I was an asshole, how stupid was I to be trying to go that way. No graciousness or hint maybe he was trying to be helpful. I paused while he flailed at me and pulled my car slightly back so he could pass since he clearly wasn’t going to move out of what I knew to be a perfectly valid lane going in the other direction.

But for a moment, I wasn’t sure… the car looked a little like it could be a (weirdly souped- up) police jeep. He and his car had an authoritarian look. Was he a cop? I know better than to pick a fight with a cop and for a minute I thought, well then, maybe he’s right. In any case, how preposterous for me, this grey haired late 50’s (but sprightly!) woman to get in a battle with this 30-something beefcake. (Oh, but I wanted to!)

“It’s one way!” he snarled at me.

“No it’s not!” I snarled back – blood pressure pumped, paddling-zen, kaput.

He barreled past. I clearly saw, he was no policeman. He was only a jerk. A macho, bully that feels comfortable and righteous throwing his weight around in his ridiculous man-toy of a car.

“Read the sign!” he yelled.

With him out of the way, I carried on and indeed read the sign – a simple STOP sign and below it No Left Turn. Of course not. It’s a loop. I went right and circled around to my boat being watched over by the sweet couple. I looked out at the water and sky and breathing, regained my chill. Or did I. I continued to think about it – and hours later, here I am writing about this encounter.

He was so sure HE was right. And how positive I felt that I was right. (And of course I WAS right. Haha!) But I wanted to find him and bring him back to the sign so he could see, it’s okay to go that way. I really wanted to prove to that guy he was wrong – as if only then would I regain the power I somehow felt I had ceded to him in reversing. Ridiculous?

In some ways, this exchange of only moments, felt a snapshot of the way I feel in the world these days. It’s a kind of wrestling match with myself to not engage in something that probably won’t end well because the one who’s wrong just won’t look at what the sign REALLY says. I’m joking. Kind of. Ultimately, in the end, these encounters just feel toxic to me. Better to keep my mouth shut, carry on doing what I believe to be right and try to let the crap go out with the tide.