Out, Out, Brief Candle: Leaving Here
So, you go through your day - wake up, tea, breakfast, catch up with housemate who's been away 9 days, go babysit funny 1.5 year old of your acquaintance, have coffee with a friend, come home, eat dinner, more chatting, and then suddenly...
WHAM.
Then your housemate, your friend, your mother, mentions something about having to move back to Phoenix next year, you know, because the one brother who's been sort of the landlord figure for Ye Olde Homestead will be going off to the Peace Corps with She Who Will Be His Wife Come May, and Sita'll have to do something about the house, sell the place, or rent it, just settle it somehow, and...
And this whole thing? This whole wonderful thing that has been the last two years? The two of us? This place? This dream.
That's the end.
Because after the house is sold, she will go off on her Next Adventure. The Mediterranean. A monastery. China. Something.
Moving here with me was meant to be the first step of a greater freedom for her. I knew that. I INTENDED that.
But.
Well. I just love being here so much. I'm not adventurous, you know. I enjoy adventure, but I like it so much to be... settled. Here. With a rhythm and a ritual to life. Walking. Writing. Working. Forging ties. Cooking. Figuring out community. Going deeper.
So I had a minor freak out, you know, like you do. Started staring into space. At walls. Mind went into overdrive.
"We have a whole year," she said. "Anything could happen."
"Yes, but Sita, this kind of move takes a whole year to plan. If something changes, plans can be adjusted, but the planning still needs to happen."
"You plan for change and adjustments. I accept change and let plans adjust to me."
"I was packed and ready for a year before moving out here. I'd been house-hopping and saving money and working while all my stuff was in storage. When I went to pick you up, you weren't even fully packed yet."
We operate differently. The different ways we operate work for us. But suddenly I realized I needed to make a new plan.
Got hugged. Listened to my mother's heartbeat for a while. That awful clock. The fragility of this flame.
Talked it out.
Things like this need talking.
The fact is, I love Westerly. I don't want to leave. But if I did leave, it would be with the plan of one day returning. As a fully self-sustaining adult.
Most of the plans I could think of involved money. Very tricky, not having any. But all that can be arranged. Money sometimes happens, especially when absolutely necessary. Some work pays off. Some windfall.
This just means I need to work harder.
I think what this means, too, is after In the Next Room? No more theatre for a while.
I had two Shakespeare plays and this amazing Sarah Ruhl play. I did this thing. This is a high note to end on. But I cannot be in theatre and write the way I need to. Two very separate pieces of my brain, both of which require formidable concentration, both of which are constantly... learning. Often on the fly. And as much as I wish my life could just be this - theatre and writing - the truth is, with a day job, even a part time one, it is too much.
No more theatre. Just novel. Pursue three agent threads offered by friends. If these fall through, pursue other threads.
There are other threads. Find more. Find enough to make a frikkin rope so I don't drown in panic.
The book I'm writing? Is good.
If anything I have ever written is commercially viable, it's this one. How do I know? Well, sometimes you just know these things. I know when I'm writing weird, experimental, lyrical, inaccessible bullshit. And I know when something is good. Even if the first draft was skeletal and the second draft was bloated. I'm pretty sure this draft is good. Solid. Salable.
If it sells, then I'll have a bit of a margin.
What will I do with that margin?
I don't suppose it'll be enough to solely support myself living by myself. Not quite yet.
Probably I'll have to house-hop again.
Don't want to leave the East Coast.
Thinking someone might want to move in with me and take up Sita's half of the rent. That could happen, right? Someone to sublet? It's a nice place. Rent is very reasonable.
Thinking of the friends who might take me in.
Options.
Boston. New York City. Maine. Canada. (Ottawa. Montreal. Toronto.) Maybe Chicago for a little while. Maybe stay with my dad again, maybe Mrs. Q's basement.
Options. One year. While I write Book 2. Because they'll want Book 2, once Book 1 sells.
How do I know?
I know.
And if they don't, that's all right. I make plans, and then I adjust to change.
If they don't, this is the 21st Century. The SELF-PUBLISHING CENTURY. I have community. I have clever friends. I have a FRIKKIN BAND and a college education. I can do this thing. Survive.
And when I have survived this next transition, if I do, I will come back to Westerly.
And I will buy a house.
Because I want to live in a place that I do not have to leave.
And I want it to have a guest room.
And a kitchen I can cook in.
I want to live in a house by the sea.
Okay?
Okay.
It seems like such an impossible, beautiful thing to want. With my life of endless college debt and my teenager tourist job and my lack of the kind of discipline that would propel me ever higher, ever faster.
My discipline is more the trudging variety, with lots of stops for naps.
Maybe the naps must stop.
Panic is a great motivator.
Ah, adrenalin.
I don't know.
I don't know, but it's a plan and I don't have to cry anymore because I will miss this apartment and my mother and the theatre and what I've begun to build.
Because I can always come back. Or build something better, on the foundations of what I've begun.
And I can be a place she returns to, between her time with the anchorites and the mermaids of Eleuthera.
And I have lived alone before. And I have traveled and worked without having a home before. And my friendships are stronger because of it. And I have been generous with what I've been given, and I can be generous again.
We lit the owl candle I bought my mother while in Ireland. And the dragonfly candle.
The kitchen smells of beeswax.
Owls for death. Dragonflies for transition.
It is good to light candles in these startled moments.
Winter is full of these chill darknesses. This one more than most.
Good practice, I suppose, in letting go.
And, well. Even if I don't like adventures so much, even if I am truly boring and like to stay at home while my imagination ramps up and wanders worlds unseen, maybe adventure just likes ME.
And life keeps on being interesting, despite my determination to STAY PUT.
And it's all right. It's all right. It's all right.
***
Time for a little infusion of Nellie Bly.
Excuse me while I quote myself.
"Look on us with gentleness, Saint Nellie.
Look on us with radiant decision.
Look on us with eyes that burn away excuses.
Take us by the t-shirt collars,
Holler in our ears.
O hear us, Nellie Bly, and kiss away
Our fear of failure.
Set upon our frowning brows
The daybreak of horizon, this gorgeous dawn,
And we will wear you like a pin on our lapels,
Like a medal around our necks,
Like a lucky thumb ring.
The reward for living large is a useful sort of deathlessness.
We hope you do not mind.
And, in our turn?
We will repay in kind."
***
WHAM.
Then your housemate, your friend, your mother, mentions something about having to move back to Phoenix next year, you know, because the one brother who's been sort of the landlord figure for Ye Olde Homestead will be going off to the Peace Corps with She Who Will Be His Wife Come May, and Sita'll have to do something about the house, sell the place, or rent it, just settle it somehow, and...
And this whole thing? This whole wonderful thing that has been the last two years? The two of us? This place? This dream.
That's the end.
Because after the house is sold, she will go off on her Next Adventure. The Mediterranean. A monastery. China. Something.
Moving here with me was meant to be the first step of a greater freedom for her. I knew that. I INTENDED that.
But.
Well. I just love being here so much. I'm not adventurous, you know. I enjoy adventure, but I like it so much to be... settled. Here. With a rhythm and a ritual to life. Walking. Writing. Working. Forging ties. Cooking. Figuring out community. Going deeper.
So I had a minor freak out, you know, like you do. Started staring into space. At walls. Mind went into overdrive.
"We have a whole year," she said. "Anything could happen."
"Yes, but Sita, this kind of move takes a whole year to plan. If something changes, plans can be adjusted, but the planning still needs to happen."
"You plan for change and adjustments. I accept change and let plans adjust to me."
"I was packed and ready for a year before moving out here. I'd been house-hopping and saving money and working while all my stuff was in storage. When I went to pick you up, you weren't even fully packed yet."
We operate differently. The different ways we operate work for us. But suddenly I realized I needed to make a new plan.
Got hugged. Listened to my mother's heartbeat for a while. That awful clock. The fragility of this flame.
Talked it out.
Things like this need talking.
The fact is, I love Westerly. I don't want to leave. But if I did leave, it would be with the plan of one day returning. As a fully self-sustaining adult.
Most of the plans I could think of involved money. Very tricky, not having any. But all that can be arranged. Money sometimes happens, especially when absolutely necessary. Some work pays off. Some windfall.
This just means I need to work harder.
I think what this means, too, is after In the Next Room? No more theatre for a while.
I had two Shakespeare plays and this amazing Sarah Ruhl play. I did this thing. This is a high note to end on. But I cannot be in theatre and write the way I need to. Two very separate pieces of my brain, both of which require formidable concentration, both of which are constantly... learning. Often on the fly. And as much as I wish my life could just be this - theatre and writing - the truth is, with a day job, even a part time one, it is too much.
No more theatre. Just novel. Pursue three agent threads offered by friends. If these fall through, pursue other threads.
There are other threads. Find more. Find enough to make a frikkin rope so I don't drown in panic.
The book I'm writing? Is good.
If anything I have ever written is commercially viable, it's this one. How do I know? Well, sometimes you just know these things. I know when I'm writing weird, experimental, lyrical, inaccessible bullshit. And I know when something is good. Even if the first draft was skeletal and the second draft was bloated. I'm pretty sure this draft is good. Solid. Salable.
If it sells, then I'll have a bit of a margin.
What will I do with that margin?
I don't suppose it'll be enough to solely support myself living by myself. Not quite yet.
Probably I'll have to house-hop again.
Don't want to leave the East Coast.
Thinking someone might want to move in with me and take up Sita's half of the rent. That could happen, right? Someone to sublet? It's a nice place. Rent is very reasonable.
Thinking of the friends who might take me in.
Options.
Boston. New York City. Maine. Canada. (Ottawa. Montreal. Toronto.) Maybe Chicago for a little while. Maybe stay with my dad again, maybe Mrs. Q's basement.
Options. One year. While I write Book 2. Because they'll want Book 2, once Book 1 sells.
How do I know?
I know.
And if they don't, that's all right. I make plans, and then I adjust to change.
If they don't, this is the 21st Century. The SELF-PUBLISHING CENTURY. I have community. I have clever friends. I have a FRIKKIN BAND and a college education. I can do this thing. Survive.
And when I have survived this next transition, if I do, I will come back to Westerly.
And I will buy a house.
Because I want to live in a place that I do not have to leave.
And I want it to have a guest room.
And a kitchen I can cook in.
I want to live in a house by the sea.
Okay?
Okay.
It seems like such an impossible, beautiful thing to want. With my life of endless college debt and my teenager tourist job and my lack of the kind of discipline that would propel me ever higher, ever faster.
My discipline is more the trudging variety, with lots of stops for naps.
Maybe the naps must stop.
Panic is a great motivator.
Ah, adrenalin.
I don't know.
I don't know, but it's a plan and I don't have to cry anymore because I will miss this apartment and my mother and the theatre and what I've begun to build.
Because I can always come back. Or build something better, on the foundations of what I've begun.
And I can be a place she returns to, between her time with the anchorites and the mermaids of Eleuthera.
And I have lived alone before. And I have traveled and worked without having a home before. And my friendships are stronger because of it. And I have been generous with what I've been given, and I can be generous again.
We lit the owl candle I bought my mother while in Ireland. And the dragonfly candle.
The kitchen smells of beeswax.
Owls for death. Dragonflies for transition.
It is good to light candles in these startled moments.
Winter is full of these chill darknesses. This one more than most.
Good practice, I suppose, in letting go.
And, well. Even if I don't like adventures so much, even if I am truly boring and like to stay at home while my imagination ramps up and wanders worlds unseen, maybe adventure just likes ME.
And life keeps on being interesting, despite my determination to STAY PUT.
And it's all right. It's all right. It's all right.
***
Time for a little infusion of Nellie Bly.
Excuse me while I quote myself.
"Look on us with gentleness, Saint Nellie.
Look on us with radiant decision.
Look on us with eyes that burn away excuses.
Take us by the t-shirt collars,
Holler in our ears.
O hear us, Nellie Bly, and kiss away
Our fear of failure.
Set upon our frowning brows
The daybreak of horizon, this gorgeous dawn,
And we will wear you like a pin on our lapels,
Like a medal around our necks,
Like a lucky thumb ring.
The reward for living large is a useful sort of deathlessness.
We hope you do not mind.
And, in our turn?
We will repay in kind."
***