Today’s accompanying tune: “Cleopatra” by The Lumineers
I’m not sure what made that day different. If the dreariness of the clouds tempered the harshness of the sun and dampened the relentless heat. If the botched schedule that resulted in an extra day to myself reset my brain in one way or another. If the familiar face that greeted me from her van settled me in some way, a little piece of my former home in my new one. If I was simply so tired, so worn out, that my brain took a backseat to my body, who just made it work. I trusted that she would know what to do, that she would remember. All I had to commit to, after all, was trying hard. The rest just had to follow.
Traveling back to California so soon after my move — and my even more recent move into the little blue house — was unsettling. Here was a place I loved, a place I knew deeply, seen through the windshield of a rental car. After so much newness, so much uncertainty, here was a place where I didn’t need GPS, didn’t need to research places to eat, didn’t need to negotiate the tells of my acquired accent. The expansive sunsets, the sparse landscapes, the insect-eating bats all pieces of me as much as they were of the high desert. But as the plastic on the car rental keys and the stowed duffel belied, this place was no longer home.
The first few days of that trip, I longed. I relished the dry high-altitude air and the crispy scent of pine trees in 80 degrees. I accumulated sand in my shoes and remembered how to unconsciously scan for snakes. I stopped for a banana milkshake and relished the small crowd that gathered at the picnic tables in back. How lucky, I thought, to be in this place for even a moment. I wrapped the familiarity around me and sank into its comfort.
Reality didn’t knock, didn’t announce itself. It crept in gradually with the crankiness of late-summer heat, the ineffectiveness of the evaporative cooler. The steady stream of ants, flies, and wasps on their endless search for moisture and salt. The mundanity of the driving, the unpredictability of the semi trucks loaded with garlic barreling down the highway. The rush of first-time tourists impatient with the workings of the small town coffee shop. Did I mention the heat?
By the time the regional jet left the Fresno airport, I looked forward to the return of trees, of greenery, of the little blue house, as incomplete as she currently is. A chance to rest, to recover, to bring down the temperature. I wondered how I would feel, how I would react, after seeing these two places so closely in time. Would I love them both, still, differences and all? Would I feel claustrophobic without the soaring mountains and blazing sky? Did I need those elements to feel like myself, to feel whole? Would the forest, its life and greenery and magic, be enough?
I am the recipient of many comments when I tell my new neighbors where I moved from, but by far the most common is about the difference in environments. About trading heat for cloud cover, about proximity to the opposite borders of the country. About how these two places, to them, have nothing in common.
In the whirlwind of change, I agreed. I was looking for something different, something new, I’d say. I was reacting, sure, but also seeking something I’d never known but felt in this new place. That I would grow to love it because I felt it could love me. The responses were akin to stretching out my hand and losing sight of my fingers in the dust stirred up in the whirlwind. Maybe the response wasn’t wrong, but it was lacking a clarity of seeing the whole. All I could do was wait for the dust to settle, to take in my surroundings, and see what I was working with. To exercise patience and trust. Trust that this move felt right. Trust that, even if my brain hadn’t yet joined us, my body knew. Trust that trying hard worked in tandem with wait and see; that good things come both from time and effort.
As soon as I was back at the little blue house, I left again. I drove south and east, out towards the granite peaks and a familiar face. I waited, patiently, as the tree cover dwindled and revealed formations that can only be described as awesome. I spent the day covered in dirt and pine needles and chalk as we found our way up some 1,000 feet into the air, two women from the desert sweating profusely in the forest’s humidity. Something clicked. It was one of the best climbing days I’ve had in years, if not ever. One of those magical days where the pieces fall into place, each reliant on the other to make the whole. The picture finally revealed as the dust settled below.
These places, these homes, did have something in common. As far as I know, it is the only thing, though I’m sure I will find more over the years. But for now, the through line looks back at me squarely in the mirror. She chose these places, felt their pull, and answered. Together, we’ve lived and grown enough to know the magic of time and effort. Of trusting the process, trusting the natural places we love so much to continue doing so. Of trusting that change is impermanent but revolutionary, a doorway to a world we never knew we belonged in. Of trusting each other; of trusting myself.
I don’t know what the next few years hold; I barely know where I will be next week. But I know that I look forward to returning to the little blue house more and more each time I leave. I know that it surprises me daily and soothes me hourly. So I trust that one day, it will click. The pieces in place, the pine needles and dirt as much a part of me as they are of the subalpine conifer forest. That I will have tried hard enough to do my part, to give it all I can.
Here’s to trying hard.
- Megan