Perhaps there remains for us some tree on a hillside, which every day we can take into our vision; / there remains for us yesterday's street and the loyalty of a habit so much at ease

I go through phases marked by an internal storm of uncertainty and restlessness. Long and blank stares alternate with explosive bursts of frenzied productivity—in nearly clocklike regularity!—but the stares never quite fixate on anything, and the productivity is never quite deeply productive. It’s no surprise that these phases coincide with a lack of writing on my part, which is honestly driven by an almost stubborn refusal to write, or, the patient symptom of knowing the cure but choosing to first see how far I can go before cracking. I guess this is the crack. It should be even less of a surprise that it was a phase precisely like this one that led me to the decision two years ago that we had to leave New York and take a break for a year. And there was lots of guilt in that. And this blog was created to combat the guilt. To maneuver and manipulate and posture myself so that those decisions felt justified in some way, that I really truly had respectable reasons for running away. To stay presentable to my family and friends. Look, the gorgeous view I could wake up to every morning. Look, a relevant university job I landed as a temp. Look, the mountain we hiked on an afternoon whim. Our adorable houses on water. Yoga everyday. I’m healthier. I’m happier. I’m breathing again.

It was difficult to fully enjoy the year. Of course there’s been enough distance now that I’m looking back on it with fondness and gratitude. I’m ready to recount it. But before the photos and the stories come, I have to qualify them first and admit that there were days when I was downright miserable. The misery in getting what you want and realizing it’s not all you wanted. There were storms to weather then, just like there are now, and the peace we were seeking had nothing to do with the country we were in or the length of our commutes. I blamed my unhappiness on my external contexts—as though New York was directly responsible for my shortcomings—and it took eight months on the other side of the world to admit that. The instability was just as present in New Zealand, and in Japan, and here in Cambridge, and despite finding myself amidst settings more picturesque, I still linger a moment too long on self doubt, judgment, and next-step paralysis. And still, even in the heights of an objective happiness, I was constantly looking forward to chasing the next joy for a version of me who isn’t ready enough or open enough or whole enough to receive it.

I know this is becoming deeply personal. I was always afraid of this particular platform—no other blog I kept has held an audience so familial, direct, and spoken-out-loud. Without my usual cloak of anonymity and subliminality I was unsure how to proceed with consistency, so I didn’t proceed at all. All this to say there are many things I wanted to share, and many things I’d still like to share, but I’ll permit myself the ambiguity that was always so comforting and so inspiring. My apologies in advance and throughout if I fail to provide details that should be automatically attached. I’m bad at context. That’s why I preach it so often. And this post likewise contains very little premeditated arc, so if you feel it unraveling, it is.

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Listening to your favorite songs driving home after a good night. Candles burning on a rainy day. Yes, the springtimes needed you. A house painted teal, white trim, yellow sunflowers, the long and empty road. A loved one’s telephone voice. Jetstreams. The vastness of Sunday afternoon. Grainy off-angle frames of petals falling from a tree. Overcast. A dusty windowsill. A first cup of coffee. The mood, the sigh, the small space in my heart that expands with blankness, or maybe something else.

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I don’t write much anymore. I mean—I write too many emails, signed “Thanks! Best, Marielle”; I rewrite some parts of other people’s essays; I write copy about other people’s work; I put together feedback that toes the elusive line between just-critical-enough-to-be-productive and too-discouraging-to-keep-going. And I’m not so good at any of it. But I’m not complaining. Full disclosure: I actually love it. I value the dialogue. But in being so open to the core ideas in other work, I’m realizing I may have lost any core of my own. This is the primary motivator, and the last direct thing I’ll say. All else will be a digression.

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No one ever really knows. 

the land of the long white cloud

It’s a little bit odd as I sit here and attempt to write a conclusion on our life in New Zealand while doing it from a rural village in the hills of Japan. New Zealand, and specifically Dunedin, was our home for seven months. When we were getting ready to leave it, I was actually eager to do so, excited for Japan and a little tired of this town at the bottom of the world. In fact, Japan, as it turns out, has rapidly risen to top country on my slowly growing list of ones visited. But nevertheless, as I look back over photos and lapse into fond memories from the land of the long white cloud, I have come to realize just how special New Zealand is and our time there was. As perhaps tiring as it is to talk about, the landscape of New Zealand is so profoundly unique. It is only after I’ve left that this fact has truly set in. Ironic certainly, but perhaps necessary, the constant saturation of changing landforms—mountains, cliffs, glaciers, waterfalls, rivers, beaches, forests, and far more—almost make you numb to it. Like visiting a great number of Gothic Cathedrals, one after the other, you sadly see Notre Dame as merely one of many. It’s an unfortunate condition and one that certainly isn’t obligatory, but, to a certain extent, happened to me. Now with some space between me and my time there, I don’t necessarily yearn to be back, but deeply love and treasure the time we had there. Despite being blessed to have lived near and visited some grand landscapes, there wasn’t a day spent in New Zealand that some element of nature didn't decide to impress. 

As mentioned above, the Maori name for New Zealand—Aotearoa—means the land of the long white cloud. When I first heard this I thought how apt as New Zealand seen on a map indeed looks like a long white cloud, stretched along and amidst the sea. If considered for longer, however, New Zealand would not be known to the Maori from an objective aerial view but rather seen from the horizon, both on approach from the sea and when on the island itself. The land of the long white cloud therefore isn’t pictorial, but experiential. Clouds linger in long lines above mountain tops or just along the coast. Storms sweep over the island, bringing wave after wave of grey and white and wind and rain. And if without clouds, the sky’s horizon changes the mountain tops themselves into clouds through a distant haze. But beyond the physical phenomenon of what nature brings, there’s something metaphysical about the place itself. The land of the long white cloud, perhaps more than anything, hints at the subtle magic and splendor kept in a place far off in its own world. That was our world for a little while. 

Dunedin itself became a temporary home, a jumping off point for periodic adventures, and a resting place for the in between times. It gets its name from the Scottish Gaelic name for Edinburgh and if not obvious, was an early Scottish settlement. It is nestled in at the base of some small mountains, bordered to the east by the harbor and south by the sea. It wasn’t always perfect, but it was often what we needed. When I was fourteen I had dreamt of living in New Zealand—being old, retired, and near the ocean. In a funny twist of fates, it came at the age of twenty six, in between work and a return to school, and near the ocean. Dreams give us hope and often feed our life, though they rarely manifest directly into reality. I’m beginning to think that’s okay. For better or worse—with all the faults, follies, heartache, happenstance, and unexpected delight—my lived reality often far exceeds my wildest imagination.

departing stops part ii

At a certain point you reach peace with what you have or haven’t done when traveling in a place for a substantial length of time. You’ve seen so much it’s almost insensitive to want more. For us this moment had come well before we began our final few days of adventuring before flying home. This bit was the cherry on top, an unnecessary delight that simply added to the overall flavor, but in no way carried serious expectations. Nevertheless, New Zealand often has a way of exceeding expectations that may have never existed.

After the Pinnacles, the second item on our bucket list was Tongariro National Park. It is one of the most trafficked areas on the north island, home to Mount Ngauruhoe—more commonly known now as Mount Doom—and a bevy of beautiful hikes come summer and winter. During the first few weeks of our time in New Zealand we got rained out of our desired hiking destinations here and opted in turn for a more cozy-cabin rest period. The reality is, neither our first nor second encounter with Tongariro combined would be enough time to see everything as it's home to some of the best day-hikes in New Zealand and one of the nine Great Walks. And to no surprise, we unfortunately were pressed for time once more, disallowing major exploration. But really, we just wanted a little one-on-one moment before saying goodbye. No great expectations. Our encounter was simple and short and, in that way, perfect. 

Mead’s Wall Walk—our determined spot to say goodbye—is a short walk found not far from the end of Bruce Road at the base of Mount Ruapehu. It also happened to be the filming location for a number of scenes in The Lord of the Rings. Thus the continuation of our unintentional film location tour. The funny thing about visiting a place you’ve seen in a movie is it typically leaves you with one of two feelings. The first is an overwhelming desire to go back and watch the movie the place was in. The second is the place transcends it’s cinematic portrayal as you marvel at its beauty for what it actually is. That’s what happened here in Tongariro. You couldn’t help but be reminded of the LotR, but it quickly receded to the back of your mind and instead you became overwhelmed with its volcanic landscapes, creeping fog, and piercing sun that eventually reveals great vistas and canyons beyond. Though we weren’t looking for any, we still found great satisfaction in our last stop of many over the seven months of our extended stay. Thank you New Zealand.

departing stops part i

So it begins. March came sooner than expected and somehow not soon enough. As emotions mixed between eagerness to press on and sadness to let go, we formed our itinerary with Auckland and the airport being the final destination. Our New Zealand bucket list had fortunately grown small. At the time of departing Dunedin there were only three things left. The first two were north island spots we didn’t fully get to enjoy on the way down. The third still alludes us today: Abel Tasman. Abel Tasman is a national park located at the north part of the south island and slightly to the west. We were meant to go backpacking there, but its nine hour drive time from Dunedin and our thinning pocket book forced us to regrettably pass. We had done so with the thought that on our way out of New Zealand we could visit for a day or two before taking the ferry to Wellington. This never happened either. Through a series of unimportant and frankly dull decision making that I won’t bore you with, we decided to fly from Dunedin to Wellington, rent a car, and drive to Auckland from there. This decision left out Abel Tasman once more mostly in favor of saving money. One day, you’ll be mine. 

One of the things we did manage to conquer were the Putangirua Pinnacles. It’s a site just outside of Wellington that we, on our way down initially, were unable to fully investigate because of heavy amounts of rainfall the days before. The hike is essentially along a stream bed, the pinnacles stretching overhead. This is hard to do when the stream isn’t dry. For our second try, however, the conditions were perfect. The pinnacles are towering rocks formed over thousands of years of erosion, rising sea levels, melting ice, and lowering sea levels, then a few more thousand years of rain and wind. They tower above you like gothic spires or perhaps like something out of an Antoni Gaudi nightmare. Admittedly, these geological wonders are made even more awesome because they played the role of the Paths of the Dead in The Return of the King. Even if that weren’t the case, however, there is something naturally eerie when walking through them and its descriptors such as ‘badlands’ and ‘hoodoos’ don’t help. But yes, I did feel like a member of the Fellowship as I marched upwards, camera unsheathed, and my boyhood self on full display. Our unintentional Lord of the Rings tour continues in part II.

summer come winter

To all those most dear in our hearts—our friends, our family—we wish you a Merry Christmas. 

light on a ledge

What is it about lighthouses that captures our attention? Is it nostalgia for a long ago lived fairytale in which one man lived alone in a house of light? Is it rather the sadness amidst the very same notion? Is it the protection they offer, soldiers on guard, giving guidance to wayward seafarers? Is it the sublime, the light touch of man's creation on the otherwise untamed coastline? Is it the distance from our tethered real world, the pilgrimage one must make to arrive at its front door that grants us perspective? To each her own? To what we find when the mountains meet the sea? 

primary exposure

I've been shyly curious about and have partially participated in photography for the last five years. I believe my skill levels have increased, if only slightly, though any preferred topical niche within photography has been short term if at all. I remember the first time I returned from New Zealand I had next to no pictures of any of the five other people I had been traveling with and only landscapes. Afterwards I began taking a lot more portrait shots. Perhaps it was a way to balance things out. When we moved to New York I enjoyed doing that more and more despite Marielle's constant annoyance at her often being my only subject. 

Our return to New Zealand brought back an opportunity to try landscape photography again. In part for planning research and in part for inspiration, I started following a lot of professional photographers specifically in New Zealand, but also in the States and elsewhere. I became inspired and eager to photograph as much as possible on our two week road trip southbound. However, I also think I became influenced rather negatively. More and more I came to internal expectations equal to those precedents I had researched before. My vastly inferior ability, lower-end camera equipment, and general lack of experience, not to mention occupation title, seemed to be forgotten as I became overwhelmingly obsessed with achieving the perfect photo everywhere we went. 

At some point reality slapped me in the face, partially in the form of a good talking-to from Marielle as well as personally being fed up with my grumpy moods after unsuccessful photo outings. The thing was, they shouldn't be photo outings. They were meant to be just outings. I'm an unemployed architectural designer hoping to go back to school. In what part of my mind had that translated into professional photographer? I wasn't waking up in the dark of morning to capture the perfect sunrise, I wasn't staying up late with my non-existent shutter remote to capture long-exposure night shots. I wasn't a photographer traveling, but rather a traveler taking photographs. Yes I enjoy doing it, but the experience itself is what comes first. The few photographs of quality I have are mostly do to luck over skill and, even then, only express a fraction of what has been one wonderful moment followed by another.

the everyday

It seemed like it just popped up in the middle of town—a quick stop off the main drag. An old man greeted us after we parked but before we made our way down. He was retired and volunteered at the park reserve to keep busy. He talked to us about Whangarei Falls, gave us tips on walking paths, and even told us to make sure we saw his favorite viewing spot. 

windows xp

California is named the Golden State. Obviously this is because the gold rush in the mid eighteen hundreds responsible for its eventual statehood. Okay, fine. However, for whatever reason, I have always thought that on some level California gets its goldenness from the seemingly unending hills rolling from coast inland, up and down its more central parts. Despite the annual brevity of change when these hills turn shades of something more lively, the golden landscape between sea and valley makes up much of California's identity for me. If California had a foil to its golden whiskers along its unshaven face, however, the north island of New Zealand may be it.

Here it is not for a few weeks out of the year, but rather a constant and unending green that occupies each view. It fills your every look like water rushing in a sinking ship. It shifts in and around forestland spared or yet to be cut, it is speckled by cows of varying colors and the white of sheep. It gets covered over by the low-lying texture of darker green bush—its own texture marked by the hooves of grazers there to keep its height in check. It is the color green you intended for when you over-saturate your photographs. It is the color green crayon you used as a child for the hills that sat just below your five-sided house. Its the color green that’s always greener on the other side of the fence. Even when it gets covered by changing shades from forest and bush, it reappears like pockets of blue sky playing backdrop to the shifting white clouds. It is this green that marks the landscape and sometimes even remains after closing your eyes. A most beautiful green. But sometimes I do find myself thinking about that gold. 

*the image used as the default background for Windows XP was taken, of course, in no place other than the golden state of California

a preface of sorts

Seventeen days and sixteen nights on the road. Eight of them spent sleeping in the back of our dearly dilapidated car, Craig, one of them in our wonderfully fit-for-two tent, and seven of them (a few more than expected) in indoor shelters with roofs not prefaced by sun or moon nor referred to as a fly cover. Eleven days spent in the north island, six on the south, and all spent waking up at sunrise, falling asleep shortly after dusk, and breathing air that cleans lungs rather than sullies them. This was the beginning of our stay in New Zealand as we made our way south from Auckland to Dunedin, where we will change hats from wayward nomads to temporarily settled and begin to observe living in another country for the next six months or so. 

Pushing aside the slight anxiety caused by accommodation unknowns and vehicle uncertainties, the feeling of freedom that comes with a pair of car keys in your hand, all you need to survive in your trunk, and a series of roads that take you through Middle Earth makes you walk with levity and feel with might. It has been a true joy to wake up and discover the next set of explorations as they unfold throughout the day. The only complaint is wishing there was more time to do them all. 

There is more to say and much more to be taken away from our time than anything that can be conjured up in a sweeping generality said in passing here. And so more will be said, in detail and in time. But for now it is merely a moment of cheer. Cheers to the close of one and the opening of another, and cheers to New Zealand's preface. It has done its job and we are intrigued. Now we wait for the following chapters to begin.