Sparta

It's time to move back to Bellingham.

North Bend is a war-zone for me. Its heavily conservative Christian, with spots of fundamentalism. Everyone in the valley goes to one of three brainwash centers churches. Fighting my own ground is suicide amongst TEA party dogs. Liberalism, democracy, fair-trade, tolerance and acceptance do not exist here.  Little Appalachia holds its ground. For my part, I do try not to fall victim to thinly-veiled comments to ensnare a free thinker, a different sort of soul.

I'm holding my flag, and so be it.

But I miss the more-mystical-by-the-minute Bellingham. I need my tree-hugging folk. I need my full-to-bursting farmer's markets, and haphazardly piled bikes outside breakfast joints. I miss my musically-gifted friends who make dinner and jam until midnight or later. I miss the happy, easy-going people in the street. I miss talking to the people at the Co-op and running into ski coaches who moonlight as peddlers of health bars made in the foodshed of Mt. Baker and the Nooksack/Skagit.

Soon.