A place in the country
A horse just ran across my front lawn. Followed almost immediately by a disgruntled rider on foot running after her.
I always wanted to live on a dead-end road in the middle of nowhere. At least, in my what's-next daydreams with partners I said I did, fantasizing about getting away from everywhere and doing our own thing. A tidy, round house with a long gravel driveway and a garden. Lots of chock-full bookshelves, perhaps a sleeping loft. Jars of homemade pickles in the pantry, herbs hung to dry in front of the kitchen window. A wood-burning stove with a stone hearth, and a fantastic sound system. Detached garage with a workshop; chickens in the yard. A big, 'No Trespassing' sign at the turn-off from the main road.
For a long time all I ever wanted was to live in Seattle. Boy howdy, did I ever pack a lifetime of living in Seattle into 18 years. I lived in Wallingford, 2 places in West Seattle, in Capital Hill, 4 different places on Beacon Hill, where I eventually bought a place (I co-owned one of the West Seattle houses, too, but never really felt the sense of ownership I have with the Beacon Hill house). For work I did everything from baker, Boeing employee, artist's model, call center rep at a fly-by-night warranty company, photographer's assistant & photo printer, to being hired by a kinky sex toy shop. For fun I joined an anti-establishment marching band, gathered singers, volunteered at community gardens, marched in demonstrations, and went to a lot of shows and art parties. I dined in high-rise members-only clubs and dove in dumpsters for loaves of bread still warm and fresh from the oven. I met a lot of wonderful people and made great friends; I made a few enemies, too, for good or ill.
The horse just ran across going back the other way. The rider, who looks exhausted, is now walking in her wake, the horse's lead dangling pointlessly from her hand and her riding boots clomping uncomfortably on the pavement.
My partner's father worried about me when he learned we were moving to Whidbey: a city girl like me. Could I be happy in the country? Before he asked me this I hadn't even thought about it. Well, could I? As I watch a tiny female Anna's hummingbird sup mightily on the feeder outside my window, I know the answer: of course I can be, for I am.
The circumstances that brought me to Whidbey Island have the same curious feeling I get about almost everything that happens to me, of both acting with spontaneity and mindfulness as well as being hurtled along a path I really don't have any control over. In many ways my desires for being here are the same as for being anywhere: find music, make music. Make friends and colleagues, build community. Eat good food. Laugh a lot. Tend my garden.
I always wanted to live on a dead-end road in the middle of nowhere. At least, in my what's-next daydreams with partners I said I did, fantasizing about getting away from everywhere and doing our own thing. A tidy, round house with a long gravel driveway and a garden. Lots of chock-full bookshelves, perhaps a sleeping loft. Jars of homemade pickles in the pantry, herbs hung to dry in front of the kitchen window. A wood-burning stove with a stone hearth, and a fantastic sound system. Detached garage with a workshop; chickens in the yard. A big, 'No Trespassing' sign at the turn-off from the main road.
For a long time all I ever wanted was to live in Seattle. Boy howdy, did I ever pack a lifetime of living in Seattle into 18 years. I lived in Wallingford, 2 places in West Seattle, in Capital Hill, 4 different places on Beacon Hill, where I eventually bought a place (I co-owned one of the West Seattle houses, too, but never really felt the sense of ownership I have with the Beacon Hill house). For work I did everything from baker, Boeing employee, artist's model, call center rep at a fly-by-night warranty company, photographer's assistant & photo printer, to being hired by a kinky sex toy shop. For fun I joined an anti-establishment marching band, gathered singers, volunteered at community gardens, marched in demonstrations, and went to a lot of shows and art parties. I dined in high-rise members-only clubs and dove in dumpsters for loaves of bread still warm and fresh from the oven. I met a lot of wonderful people and made great friends; I made a few enemies, too, for good or ill.
The horse just ran across going back the other way. The rider, who looks exhausted, is now walking in her wake, the horse's lead dangling pointlessly from her hand and her riding boots clomping uncomfortably on the pavement.
My partner's father worried about me when he learned we were moving to Whidbey: a city girl like me. Could I be happy in the country? Before he asked me this I hadn't even thought about it. Well, could I? As I watch a tiny female Anna's hummingbird sup mightily on the feeder outside my window, I know the answer: of course I can be, for I am.
The circumstances that brought me to Whidbey Island have the same curious feeling I get about almost everything that happens to me, of both acting with spontaneity and mindfulness as well as being hurtled along a path I really don't have any control over. In many ways my desires for being here are the same as for being anywhere: find music, make music. Make friends and colleagues, build community. Eat good food. Laugh a lot. Tend my garden.