This May Take A Minute

Example of the local pre-dawn light

And you may find yourself
Living in a shotgun shack
And you may find yourself
In another part of the world

And you may ask yourself
Well, how did I get here?

And you may ask yourself

"My god—what have I done?"

Same as it ever was

Same as it ever was

Once in a Lifetime—David Byrne/Brian Eno

***

Sitting here in the quiet and the pre-dawn light, I have no idea how we got here.

And the more I try to pry open that oyster, the more it resists scrutiny.

I stare at the array of photos and the list of steps we took lurching toward this goal—but collectively they don't seem to add up to "moving halfway across an ocean."

And they don't reflect the overlapping roiling that took place (gestures at the entire world) while we anxiously plowed ahead.

***

In January we moved our daughter into her own apartment at the University of Washington. Classes there were still entirely remote (hi, pandemic), but there comes a time when a girl just needs her space.

The next day we moved our other child to Hawaii for many of the same reasons—and really, there are few better places to ride out our current viral storm because this state has done things right from the get-go.

A couple days later, the outgoing president of the United States incited a mob to subvert the transfer of power to the president-elect. The attempt failed, but if you keep up with current events you know the people behind it haven't given up. The Former Guy may still get the Ceaușescu moment he's thirsting for.

***

Throughout the winter we figured we were a year (maybe two) from picking up and moving. But as the PNW dark grudgingly turned to light, there was a seasonally affected shift in our thinking.

The pandemic had a lot to do with it ("anything can happen to anyone at any time—what are we waiting for?"), as did an underlying sense that after 17 years in Seattle it was time for a change.

The decision happened in increments, with stretches of ambiguity in between:

(March, contemplatively)

"We could live part of the year here and part of the year there."

(April, more than once)

"We could rent out this house as long as home prices keep going up."

"Ahhhhhhhhhh!!!"

(May, shouting over a frenzied seller's market)

"We should sell this house ASAP!"

(ASAP turned out to be September, and the house sold in three and a half days)

***

Like an invisible predator, covid-19 quietly and constantly sat with us during every conversation about our future.

At the beginning of January, 2021, covid had killed more than 375,000 Americans. At the end of the last day of 2021 it will have taken another 445,000 of our neighbors, colleagues, and loved ones. More than 820,000 people gone, with no end in sight.

The point being, while covid didn't always get an overt mention in our discussions, its implicit presence impacted every one of them.

***

Let's talk about something else like, IDK, the weather. 

The dry (west) side of the Big Island is *very* dry, averaging as little as 10 inches of rainfall a year. Meanwhile, the wet (east) side of Maui is *very* wet, averaging up to 115 inches of annual precip.

The distance between the two coasts is equivalent to a Jesus marathon (26 miles across the water).

Microclimates, man.

***

Yes, it's a metaphor.

Significant changes will continue to roll over and through our family in the near future.

Here at Singing Whale Farm we'll be tearing our kitchen down to the studs and building it back up again.

Almost simultaneously a solar energy system will be installed on our roof, freeing us from the hobgoblin of Big Oil.

Most importantly—the house my parents bought 50 years ago will be going on the market soon. They'll be moving to an assisted living mise en scène a long way from Colorado (but very near my brother and his family).

These are the things we know about at the moment. As always, there will be far more things we don't know about that we'll deal with as they arrive on our shore.

Today's example: at 6:30 a.m. we received a text from our friendly PO Box people. They wanted to let us know that they're closing their doors and that their last day of business will be...

...tomorrow.

Don't send us any mail for a while, I guess.

***

In closing...

BUCKLE UP, 2022, WE'RE GOING FOR A RIDE.

***

“Things falling apart is a kind of testing and also a kind of healing. We think that the point is to pass the test or to overcome the problem, but the truth is that things don’t really get solved. They come together and they fall apart. Then they come together again and fall apart again. It’s just like that. The healing comes from letting there be room for all of this to happen: room for grief, for relief, for misery, for joy.”

―Pema Chödrön

(h/t Erin Earle, LMHC)