My ex-husband completes his gentle journey into death, my long, arduous search for a new home ends with an extraordinarily wonderful new space
and I belatedly waken to the abundant signs of spring.
The season of my seemingly endless house-hunting travail has ended! I’m living–and finally relaxing–in my new, miraculously, wonderfully perfect house!
For almost five weeks I’ve been totally immersed in the compelling and consuming process, work, joy and sadness of moving house. Only in the past few days am I, at last, beginning to reclaim my more normal, rest-filled pace. Filled with a voluptuous mix of exhaustion and exhilaration. Overcome with amazement and wonder at this incredibly magical, extraordinary gift of a space that’s been brought to me by Spirit/the Grandmothers. Brought to me yet again–as has been the “usual” with the appearance of my new homes over the years–in the twelfth hour. Arriving, this time, not without a few unbelievably upsetting “hiccups!”
Yesterday I took my first trail walk in all this time and saw that Spring had burst full bloom in the mountains while my consciousness was totally possessed by the moving. Lupine, poppy, purple sage, button sage, wild hyacinth, baby blue eyes, morning glory, wild coreopsis, ceanothus and brilliant eruptions of abundant poison oak cover the hills. Hills incredibly greened with wild grasses after all the rains of biblical proportions that have blessed our winter here. And how the scent of orange blossoms fills the air again! I feel drunk with the lushness of it all. What a joy to be able to look outward again. To see the leafing and blossoming of the apple and persimmon trees in my new yard that’s actually a huge fenced private and mostly wild meadow. So odd for me to have been so unaware of the season changing. So odd to be noticing it now in a whole new local geography. To be watching my roses have their first blooming in a brand new setting.
This has been the first time and space I’ve had or taken to look up and around outside of me since early February. So, too, this is the first time and space I’ve had since then to actually stop and reflect on the journey I’ve been through inside of me.
The past two months since last I wrote have continued to be filled with the intensity that has been the new norm in my journey since March of a year ago. The first weeks of February were the final weeks of my former husband’s life. I spent some sweet, deep time with him in his last days. Found some simple ways to bridge the gap between our beliefs about the spiritual process of dying. As he slipped more deeply into coma, I found myself drawn to gently stroking his body offering words of gratitude for the gifts his body had brought to him and the gifts his life had brought to those of us who cared about him. Talking to him of the memories that would keep him in my heart even as he left the physical world.
There were times of tender intimate, sometimes hilarious sharing of L-stories with my former brother- and sister-in-law and with the couple who have been his family-of-the-heart for the past 25 years. Some before his actual death and some afterward when the five of us and his nephew and nephew’s wife had a kind of “roast” and lunch celebrating his life.
His death, strangely, came exactly five months to the day after my other former partner’s death. He died at 9:30 A.M. February 11th and she’d died at 9:30 P.M. on September 11th. They died of the same bone metastasis, on the same Hospice medication protocol, both dealing with the challenging process of becoming totally dependent after having been fiercely independent all their lives.
Yet, they died so differently! She struggled and fought and was filled with rage, spewing nastiness at the friends she relied on to help her transition. He surrendered into the process, allowing his paid full-time caregivers and also his family/friends to provide what support he needed. While he didn’t suffer fools gladly and could be brusque at times, he was never nasty. So much the difference between their ways of dying seemed to reflect where they were about their lives, what peace or lack of peace they felt about the lives they’d had.
Witnessing his dying and being just an ancillary part of his support team provided a kind of psychic antidote, a gentle salve for the rawness left by the wrenching, ravaging process of being so centrally involved with her death. Then, in the days just after his death I was stunned, shocked and deeply moved when his brother called to tell me that L had left me an incredibly substantial bequest from his trust. While B had died owing me almost $40,000, L had left me almost 4 times that amount! And, further compounding the general oddness was the fact that while I found out that I had to leave my home of 14 years the very week that B died, my new house was first offered to me the very week that L died. Though I’ve no idea of what to make of it all, it seems a strange kind of synchronicity.
All during my move, I kept an altar for him. Daily, for the 49 days that the Tibetan Buddhists believe it takes for the soul to transition back into the all-that-is, I offered prayers for his continuing journey. The daily prayers and reflecting on the transitioning person’s life are something that I’ve done for all my friends who’ve crossed over–except B. At the time of her death I needed to be done with her energy right then, not to stay connected through all those 49 days. And, as I made this move, I found I needed to let go of a large painting of hers that has lived in my homes for over 18 years. I’ve sent it on to her niece and grandnieces who also love her artwork. The largesse from L gave me the slack to pay the rather extravagant shipping costs involved in doing that.
Somehow this all seems to be part of a coming full circle. Completing a long cycle in my journey. Releasing and being released by what is past. Opening to some undefinable, as yet unclear future. And, oh, this new house! This feels like such a threshold place, such a birthing space for whatever’s-to-come!
The weekend before L died, despondent about finding a suitable rental before April, I decided to try checking out some mobile homes. It seemed a way to expand my options, even though I’ve never wanted to own real estate. I called a realtor I knew slightly from around town whose energy I’d always liked. She took me on a tour of some of the older more beautiful Ojai parks showing me 5 coaches in about an hour. Long enough for me to realize there was no way this could be an option for me! We talked about what I was hoping for and got a chance to know each other a little bit as we drove around town. And that was that. Or so it seemed.
A week later, just a few days after Leo died, I got a call from her. She had a studio on her own property that she thought might be perfect for me. She wasn’t sure she really was ready to give it up–she’d been using it as an art studio and office-at-home. And, she hadn’t–before our time together–actually thought about renting it. Yet, she had a strong sense that she would like to have my energy on her property. She wanted me to see it, to see if it was indeed right for me. If it were, she’d then go forward in the work to see if she could let it go.
I felt electrified, excited, sure that this was Spirit’s hand in it! I went right over to meet her at the house. And, promptly fell in love with it! It was all I’d hoped for and even more. A huge A frame studio immaculately and recently completely remodeled with incredible attention to every detail. Three sets of French doors, exposed beams, delicate track lighting, fauxed concrete floor, tasteful plumbing fixtures and hardware, lovely tile work and beautifully appointed cabinets. With the surprise bonus of a second largish carpeted room with huge windows and yet another set of French doors and a walk-in closet. The studio–actually a one-bedroom cottage–was surrounded on two sides by a graceful patio. The patio itself was surrounded first by a grassy and treed patch and beyond that by a huge wild meadow with some old apple and persimmons trees at its edge. Wide-open mountain views in every direction. Plenty of private space outside for my hot tub and tent. (Though I’d have to fence a small area on one side of the yard for privacy from the neighboring property.) A tree-shaded nook for my hammock. Lots of room to put up a storage shed. Access to a shared washer/dryer. Off-street parking. And, stunningly, despite the wildish country setting, the house was only 3/4 of a mile from the center of our tiny one square block “downtown.”
We agreed that I would continue to look further while she took as much time as she needed (going only as fast as her slowest part felt safe to go!) to sort out whether she could give up the space and have me move into it. I (and all my friends) prayed a lot in the days that followed. During those days there was more dead end looking and a very disquieting conversation with my soon-to-be-former landlords. They (actually the she of the they) let me know there’d be absolutely no slack in the March 31 deadline for my being gone from their property. “I’ve already waited too long, I absolutely need to have the whole property back by then at the latest!” was how she put it.
I was quite thrown by her vehemence and inflexibility after all the 14 years of a seemingly good and reasonable relationship. Her attitude and tone upset me, left me feeling sorely mistreated. It created more sense of urgency and more feelings of helplessness as I waited for the realtor’s process to unfold itself.
I finally stopped by at the realtor’s office 10 days later just to see if she had some idea of in which direction she might be tending. I was incredibly sad and disappointed to hear that she felt she was feeling too uncertain about her own direction to go ahead with renting to me. Still, she had a client who had a just-vacated guest house that they thought might work out for me. In my sad and bereft state, I spoke to that client and went to see her house. Had I not already seen and fallen in love with the realtor’s house, this one might have felt more promising than it did at first. The inside space was acceptably laid out, the location less than half a mile from my old house, the outdoors part fairly workable though not totally private. But, it was another sort of forlorn orphan of a place that needed lots of loving care to rehabilitate it. The good news was that the owner wanted to get it back into shape and was willing to work with me on paint and carpet color and to let me have a gardening shed that was near the cottage for my own private use. She felt okay about trying to have the work finished by the 20th of March. And okay, as well, with my arranging and paying for some carpentry and electrical work that I’d need for a storage closet and for my hot tub.
It took a day or two–and running it by a friend who hadn’t first seen the realtor’s incredibly cared for space–to get myself to start getting “into” it. At the owner’s request, I made a list of the repairs we’d agreed on, got carpet samples and some phone numbers for some of the supplies she’d be needing. I left all the information at the cottage a couple of days later. I was oddly uneasy, feeling less than thrilled with it all. But, I went ahead and made appointments with handymen and electricians to estimate and do some of the work for which we’d agreed I’d be paying. I continued to feel some odd uncertainty as I started my workweek on the way to those appointments. Some unease about whether this was really going to happen or not. I thought it might well just be me having difficulty adjusting to the search being over. Having a hard time accepting and settling into the having-a-place space after so long in the “despondently searching” mode. The niggling sense of doubt persisted, whatever its cause.
In the middle of my first workday, I got a phone message from the owner saying that it was all feeling too overwhelming to deal with at that moment in her life. And, that though she liked my energy, preparing for renting it out again was going to involve more stress than she felt willing to put herself through.
Needless to say, I felt undone. There was, though, some relief too. I understood, at least, that the uneasiness I’d felt about going ahead with the expensive remodeling that I’d have had to pay for was indeed based on something real–a vague intuitive sense of her uncertainty. I couldn’t believe this was all happening again, this first-yes-then-no push-pull. I dissolved in tears at the end of my day, having struggled many hours to put the whole mess aside till I was done with work. Next day, between client sessions, I left messages for the owner suggesting ways that I might alleviate some of the pressure she was under. The following day she left word that, while she appreciated my offers, she had actually realized that she needed just to keep the house for her own guests and clients rather than going ahead to rent it out again.
I cancelled all the appointments that I had pending with workmen. I felt utterly worn out, bedraggled and bereft. Hopeless and despairing. Praying to the Grandmothers to please bring me my new home before March first so that I could do the moving slowly and gently. Still trusting in Spirit to provide for me, I was yet despairing of the timetable. And, somewhere too, worrying that what Spirit might see as “right” for my next cycle of growing might be a new space that would be challenging rather than simple. I was beyond exhausted!
I decided to call the realtor to let her know the deal with her client had fallen through. To tell her that I was looking again in case she might know of something else. When I reached her, she’d already heard about it from her client. “It’s okay,” she said. “I’ve decided I really do want you to come rent my studio after all!” I was totally speechless! Erupting with joy but more than a little fearful lest it all come to nothing again. “Come to the office this afternoon and let’s sign a lease for March first.” That settled it for me, I could trust it really was happening! I was getting my dream house, just in the time frame I wanted/thought I needed to have it. And, I’d actually have it in writing! Both Teresa (the realtor, my new landlord) and I were incredibly excited and delighted about our new venture!
Her client and I later had a lovely talk about the magical way things had turned out. We got to talk about how hard it had been for me to feel that my needs/wants had been the source/occasion for so much stress for someone else. (Me, the “Queen of De-stressing!”) And, I got to tell her how much I had been moved by the incredible care she’d taken of herself–even when her choices had been so hard for me.
So here I am in my new paradise, just about a month later and completely settled in at last. The move went very, very smoothly and gently. I moved mostly by myself so that I could honor my own very slow pace. It was a kind of Zen process of packing 10 very small liquor and water boxes at a time. I’d cart these easily liftable boxes to the new house and settle their contents into just where they seemed to belong. Then I’d go back and pack 10 more boxes. I moved the insides of things first–kitchen, bathroom, clothes closet. Taking special care to never create chaos at either house as I made my way through the process of shifting “home.” Being able to “live” in both places simultaneously.
One of my dear friends spent a long day helping me put together some of the 19 (2, 3 and 5 shelf) standing bookcases I’d bought to organize all my files, books, altars, papers and clothes. We used her van to move the supporting cupboards and tops for my 15 feet of desk. Then we made several two-car trips for books and files (the only time I did more than 10 boxes at a time!) She and her partner surprised me the next day by coming for a couple more hours of assembly line assembling. The next week another friend came to help put some other storage units together. Movers moved the few large heavy pieces when everything else but the artwork had been moved over. A landscaper who’d been working with a crew at the old property moved the 50+ potted plants that are my organic garden. They came back at the end to dig up some plants and trees I decided to rescue from being trashed by my ex-landlord. And, at the end, the first friend came back to help me hang the few masks that needed to go way high up on the pitched walls. The endless rains magically took breaks just when I needed to be moving things (except for the potted plants, but the landscaper’s crew didn’t seem to mind!).
In the middle of all my endless moving, workmen were here to build fences, do the wiring for the hot tub, put together a storage shed, weed whack the meadow and mow the grassy patch around the patio. Ms. Pretty, clever as kitties always are about such things, chose to live under a sleeping bag, under the bed or snuggled deep in the closet for the first almost three weeks. She’d come out exploring only at night when things were quiet and we were alone. Since we’ve been here for a while now without workmen, she’s gradually expanded her hours out and about. Now she moves quite freely in and out of all the endless doors we have and spends a good part of each day sleeping in my in-basket.
The sweet easiness of the transition was marred only by my last interactions with the woman of the couple from whom I’ve rented all these years. She’s been cold, nasty and incredibly, bizarrely contentious over practically everything about my leaving the property. Despite how carefully I cleaned every light and plumbing fixture, every cabinet and appliance. Despite the attention I gave to spackling every large or tiny nail hole, to sanding all the residues of double-faced tape. Despite how carefully I waxed all the floors, how assiduously I removed practically every removable trace of my 14-year presence from inside and around the outside of the house. Despite the detailed information, paperwork, paint, wood fix and wood stain that I left. Despite the fire I laid into the stove for them. Despite (or, perhaps because of?) all that, she managed to find things to start picking at. I was furious! And, for the first time in 14 years of dealing with her I let her know how pissed off I was by her behavior. We “had words!” Her husband left the scene as soon as it was clear that things were not going smoothly between us. She thought we should be civil since we had been so all these years. I told her there was no way I’d accept her deducting anything from my deposit since it had already been agreed that it was being returned in full. And that, after 14 years during which I had been the one to paint or attend to the interior of the house, what was there was only normally expected wear and tear. not anything that any reasonable human being could construe as deductible “damage.”
In the end, there were four things that she needed me to know she was “very concerned and distressed” about. I’d left behind a perfectly fine hose reel that I didn’t need, thinking they’d find it useful. I’d left a small wooden planter box of geraniums screwed to an outside wall because the screws had been stripped when I’d put it up. I thought it better to leave the whole thing than to rip it away leaving the screws sticking out of the wall. I hadn’t removed the three towel hooks I’d had in the bathroom, foolishly thinking that, since there were no towel racks in the room, they might find these useful. And, I’d left a low three-panel lattice privacy fence that I’d originally told her I’d be taking with me. As I began to take things down she came by and took over. Then, as I started breaking up the fence for kindling (which she clearly informed me that she “didn’t need”) she came back over with her workman and told me he would take over, that I didn’t need to do that. I really wanted to belt her a good one, to scream and rant at her about how utterly crazy she was being and how crazy-making her behavior was for me! Why, had she had to involve me at all when in the end she decided to handle it all herself? I left in an agitated, hysterical rage after she topped it all off by coming over to my car to hug me and tell me “sweetly” that she knew it was “hard to let go.” And, that I should always feel free to come over any time and continue to pick fruit from the orchard.
It took the better part of the next 36 hours for me to begin to calm down from the insanity of our interaction. Still, when I think of it, I’m filled with such an ancient, familiar mix of rage, frustration, sadness, despair and hopelessness. It took almost 12 hours–till I was lying in my bed in the tent trying to calm down enough for sleep–to recognize that I’d just been, with her, in the kind of crazy loop I’d be in over and over again all through my childhood with my mother. Her husband’s fading away in the face of the “heat” was also reminiscent of my own dad’s disappearing when things got nuts between my mother and me. (Though, through my childhood and teen years, my dad would always come to me later to try to “explain” my mother to me and to soften the edges of my pain.)
I was grateful that I had made sure to have some quiet time at the old property to say my good-byes to it before this last “walk-through” with them. I was grateful, too, that her behavior around the leaving deadline and our dealings about what they wanted me to leave/what they would pay for those things had both given me cause to be prepared for trouble with her that final day. But, still, it was an extraordinarily painful way to end 14 very significant years of my life. There are tears and sadness even as I write this almost a week after the experience. It will take time to fade, for the re-stimulation of the ancient past to quiet again. Always, it surprises me how the oldest wounds can be wakened in a moment. And, how much time it takes for them to be calmed and quieted once stirred.
But, now that the move is completed all I have is time, all the time I might need! All of it without any agenda since my parents have, after all, decided to stay in their home for now and not to move to Maryland in mid-April! It’s hard to imagine, given the exhaustion I feel from my own moving, how I would ever have found the strength emotionally and physically to see them through such a big move just a week or two away. How wonderful for us all that neither they nor I will have to do that.
Instead, I can just be here enjoying this truly magnificent space in which everything of mine (way more than I thought I had–it seems as though my stuff was busy “making babies” when I wasn’t looking!) fits so well and so beautifully. This space that, unlike my other homes, was beautiful, sacred space before I even put my hand to it. I so yearned for a new home that wasn’t an orphaned or neglected space needing to be rehabilitated and transformed. I felt as though I needed to be done with that repeating process of seeing the beauty waiting under the tatters. The beauty waiting to be released, waiting for loving care to liberate it. I so wanted a space that would meet me where I was and allow me to use my energy to move on to whatever might lie ahead. I so hoped I was done with repairing neglect inside or outside of me! And, here, this is so absolutely so! I’m feeling enormously blessed and cared for by Spirit. It’s been an excruciating process, this trusting and not settling, not being tempted to “make do” just to end the dangling before the twelfth hour. But, truly, I hope it’s a good long time before I ever have to have my faith tested this way again!
On a totally different note, the January Monthly Musing column for my web site was the tale for the last of the 58 Rememberings and Celebrations cards! One of the cards actually had two separate tales written for it, so there are 59 separate Musings now archived on the site. An incredible journey begun in July of 1999–writing the stories for which each of the cards was the “bottom line”–has come to a close! It’s been such a magnificent adventure, this revisiting my history to uncover those stories and to give them voice.
I’m plan to continue to write the journal entries each month. Emails I get from readers make it clear that these current herstories themselves offer nourishing affirmation. That they do that by reflecting the ways in which what I’ve learned from the Grandmothers/my deep self continues to unfold and to feed my soul and my being in every day ordinary life.
In the writing space that opens up, I’m guessing that I may begin the process of putting together a hard copy manuscript of the Musings and perhaps some or all of everything else that’s on the site. At least, that what seems to be up at this moment. (One never knows exactly where Spirit will lead one after all!)
Originally published April 2005
