Moving On...

Here's the bummer about blogging publicly. The words end up out there, a permanent, irrevokable record of thought, beliefs, ideas, the truths of the moment. And then when change comes along, when new words are typed that contradict the old ones, it just looks, you know, bad... like I don't know what I'm talking about, like I'm wishy-washy, like I can't make up  my mind.

And maybe what the record reflects is actually more right than I want to believe...

Anyway, the latest change: in spite of what I wrote not long ago about a nice wintery retreat here where I will meditate, write, walk, take pictures, and art and fart (really, I'm so embarrassing sometimes, the way I can wax about things), I find myself on the cusp of "abandoning" my home. I get clear messages constantly that I am not supposed to be here. It's more than the sadness and emptiness and aloneness and isolation and depression (like I should need more...) but it's actual concrete things that happen that tell me that I really need to hit the road.

I had a friend once who ignored a serious feeling of unease as she boarded an airplane. The vibe just felt really bad, and she had a strong feeling to get herself and her son off the plane, though she ended up choosing not to make the waves or look silly. A little over halfway between Hawaii and SF the plane lost an engine. They made it safely to LA (the closest airport at the time) but she never forgot the feeling, or that she didn't listen to it, at the possible peril of she and her young son.

From the time things first began to go sour here, beginning about a month in, when yellow jackets invaded my bedroom, I have had an unwavering gut feeling that I was being communicated with. And the message was: get the hell out of there. Truly, and it felt imperative. You can ask people I've communicated with about it along the way. My sister, Ex, my daughters. It's not that I actually feel in danger... but the feeling, when it's been there strongly, has felt urgent. As in, head for the hills! And yet, because there's no where else to really go, because there are things that I really do love about my home, when things would go smoothly and I'd relax, begin enjoying my surroundings, and think, maybe I really could/should/might stay here, it would be almost immediate cause and effect. Thought, water heater goes out. Thought, water heater goes out again the next day. Thought, rain starts drop, drop, dropping into my hallway. I kid you not. Friends have been here as it has happened and they've been amazed. I'd verbalize my thought, and within thirty, sixty minutes, something big would be go wrong.

It's not that I'm slow on the uptake. It's just that this is major... I bought this house. Moved all my stuff in. And I love being in a space that I've created, with the things, the energy, that I love. Like it or not, it's become my home, where I--most of the time anyway--eat, sleep, write, etc., etc., where my animals and I live.

If I wasn't already depressed, it could be very depressing...

After the rain leak, I never vacilated again about keeping the house. Though I did think that I'd stay until it sells. Now I'm not so sure. I am uncomfortable here. In a big way. As I wrote before, coming home has become really hard. Being here once home, really hard. Thinking about staying any length of time, really hard. For the most part, even though I feel that in general I am starting to do better, I'm very depressed when I am here, in a way that is really difficult to find words for. I don't know if it's the season, which is traditionally hard for me, or the depression, or, simply that I truly with all my being want to be back in the bay area, around the people, things, places I know and love, where if I want I can mingle, or have a photo field trip or take a class or meet a friend for a movie or try Restorative Yoga or buy books for fifty cents at the library sale or go to a year-round farmer's market or sit with a teacher or hop across the bridge to see my daughter or hear the ocean or watch the sun setting on water or see the bridges lit up or the Xmas tree in Union Square. Or, if I wanted, which I usually do during December, because it makes me feel good, I could hit four or five TJ Maxx's or Marshall's, a Cost Plus or two, an art store, Whole Foods, Trader Joes and Target all in a single aternoon.

I didn't know how much I would miss all that. And for the year plus that I lived in Oakland after moving out of our home and before moving here, I pretty much didn't do any of that stuff. But I was also in shock, and I think the whole time I lived in that apartment, I was just trying to stay on my feet, adjust to something that seemed impossible, right the equilibrium, stay afloat, grieve, make sense of it all, grieve some more. Now I think I'm feeling more ready to start getting out. To put on my nice Levi's, my boots, actually fix my hair, maybe brush a bit of color on my cheeks, and head out on the town. Well, maybe a slight exaggeration, maybe I will begin a wee bit smaller, say with a butterfly shoot meet up next Saturday at Ardenwood historic farm...

So there's the antidote to the sadness about giving up my new home, the sense of having failed at this adventure; I will be able to start living again in a way that apparently suits me better than small town America where I know no one, the sidewalks roll up at six, there's nothing that attracts me, no where to wear my nice jeans, and pretty much the only place to shop is dreaded, and I mean dreaded, Walmart. And yes, it's the ending of another idea or dream and there is a significant pause here. My depressed mind wonders out loud if I'll ever be able to have a home again, if I'll ever be able to create this coziness, have my own special space, again. Why it looks at it that way, instead of the sunny side, the opportunity to find an even better space, one that suits me far more, is beyond me.

Beyond everything, I really need to be with people right now. When I'm with people, be it staying at Ex's, or with either of my daughters, or when my sister is here visiting me, despair is kept at a distance. When I'm alone up here, it arrives as if my special invitation, like it's waiting as I pull into the garage, and stays at will, until I get in the car and head back. So today I'm heading back, today when I leave my house, I do so knowing I'm in the beginning stages, no, actually solidly in the middle ones, of letting it go, of moving on, of continuing this mysterious thing we call the journey.