With the crescendo of a drumroll build-up in my last posting, I announced that the Archives was lifting anchor on a travel adventure and then left you with two days of silence.

Not an intentional bait and switch. Just the time that lapsed between lift off and landing.

Having now touched down in new terrain, I’m orienting myself, even if my electronic devices can’t quite get their bearings. My whereabouts are in a small pocket of the world discreetly out of range. My laptop searches, but can’t seem to sync to my locale, the clock still stuck in HST time. Cell phone screen states No Service.

Yes, I have internet access. Yes, I have WordPress. But everything is just a little different from the usual.

At 4am, I leave my bed and slide my hands on dark walls in search of light switches. Try not to trip at unfamiliar corners and wake the house’s sleeping inhabitants. Tip toe quietly to a coffee maker I don’t know how to use. Determine that this post will be decaffeinated.

But in the time it’s taken to express this new writing hour experience, my father has already risen. He sees me tucked up on the couch, computer in my lap. We both know why we are up before the sun. Words can be saved for our keyboards.

In a short time the smell of coffee fills the house. He brings me a mug, smiles, and goes back to his writing room.

I sit here with the sound of 4am in a new place. The quiet of my writing hour hums differently here. The coffee flavor’s not the same. And I like this.

I sit in this new world, culling the silence for something to share.

And what arises is Heavy. Bend your knees.

In the sacred space of remote countryside, my father and I quietly dedicating ourselves to the early morning muse, what comes up for me is the American Airlines tag that Jeb found at the airport yesterday.

There was an empty conveyor belt in motion at baggage claim, when suddenly a lone tag emerged from the black fringed mouth. It gave an implicit warning: “Heavy. Assisted lift may be required.”

My incessant metaphorical mind can’t resist the cautionary font, the universal graphic of bent knees.

Oh what fun to play with the meaning behind claiming your baggage. The significance of a tag instead of a suitcase coming down the conveyor belt. The warning of heavy contents, the suggestion of assistance. Illustrated safety tips on ways to carry the load.

What kind of sign is this? And what does it mean if the tag is freed from its bag?

I don’t know why I’m writing about this. And for the record, I’m not, personally, feeling any heavy baggage or need for an assisted lift. I’m feeling rather light, actually. Maybe I’m like this tag, an escapee, newly untethered.

Maybe the tag is just a random tag – no meaning, whatsoever.  It could make good fire starter in my father’s wood stove.

Today’s post, not exactly exotic. No major travel adventure to recount or stunning photographs to share. But here I am.  This morning’s chronicle from a new writing chair, fueled by a different brand of coffee.

My first morning in California before sunrise.