Thanks Giving

My children are on their way home to celebrate our last Thanksgiving in this house.  My parents and mother-in-law and sisters-in-law will join us tomorrow.  This house is one we longed for, dreamed about, waited for once we purchased the unimproved land, built, landscaped, decorated, and inhabited for eleven years.  When we moved here I thought I’d stay until my children wheeled me into a nursing home.  I couldn’t imagine wanting to be anywhere else.

Over the past few years, however, I have been slowly letting go of this house, even before I knew that my husband would leave his job and it would make financial sense to say goodbye.  Kevin and I will close escrow next week on a home in Bainbridge Island, Washington.  We will take ownership of a sixty-year-old house that has been home to only one man, and his wife (and I am guessing their children) and pets (confirmed by the home inspector).  I know little more than his name.  Neal is at least eighty years old, has moved onto his final home, and his documents are being signed by a power of attorney. 

I am thankful to be moving to a home that has sheltered a single family who lived and loved in it for sixty years.  Walking through their home I gathered fragments of their story.  This couple loved to garden, they liked green paint, wallpaper borders and lace curtains, they needed a handrail to step in and out of the shower tub, they didn’t use their basement in their later years.  I will never Neal’s family, but I want them to know that Kevin and I will be good stewards of their house––which according to our realtor and home inspector has good bones, but needs some blood transfusions and organ transplants.  

It already feels like home, and this Thanksgiving I am so grateful for my husband (we began dating in November 1980), for all that we have weathered and how we have grown closer through each challenge.  New life that beckons to us in that mid-century house on Bainbridge Island and the vision of how to share this new blessing with others reveals and refines itself day by day.

I give thanks for the years in our dream house in Boulder Creek, for the hospitality we could offer through our house to church classes, coworkers for meetings, teenagers on Friday nights, family and friends in need of short and long term living arrangements.  For the joy of watching our children grow from elementary students to confident college students, and the wonder they brought home to us as they ventured out of these doors.  For the sanctuary of my very own office with my view of Betsey the Cow, a room where I wrote sermons, newsletters, and essays, from which I served a church and earned my master’s degree.  A home that had enough space and privacy for Kevin to conduct much of his international business work from “his desk” and then Jennifer’s as we dared to claim her former bedroom as an office once it was clear she was launched.

I am blessed by Thanksgiving, for sanctioned gratitude to honor the season lived here.  And as it falls away, something new is being born, so fitting as we enter Advent on Sunday. 

I pray for the new family that will be moving into our home.  Three generations under one roof—and maybe a fourth to come—who have looked for three years for a house that suits them all.  May they be blessed by this home that we gave our heart and sweat to.  May they prosper on this land, may it empower their dreams for their season in this place.

Moving Forward

When we arrived in Washington last Thursday night, we stayed at a resort hotel for Kevin’s birthday (the Woodmark, thanks to Groupon).  Walking along Lake Washington at dusk, we saw a beaver gliding in the water, then munching groundcover along the bank.  It was the first beaver we’ve ever seen outside of captivity.  We got close enough to see its bristly fur, and as we fell silent watching it, the beaver’s presence felt like a sign  meant especially for us.  Beavers build houses, and the house we live in now, and the remodel of our old house, were both done by a contractor we respect enormously, whose logo is a beaver, and who Kevin has often fantasized about working for.  A beaver appeared to us in Washington with a message to work together and build a home there.  And that’s what we’re going to do.

We’re making an offer on the blue house on Bainbridge Island tomorrow.  The house is empty and has been on the market since May when the owners, a couple in their seventies, who lived there for almost sixty years moved on.  The house, built-in 1951 boasts mid-century modern features that are coming back into vogue—an open entry and two walls of windows in the living room.  From the windows, you look out onto a landscape that includes a small view of Puget Sound over the neighbor’s roof and between cedars.  Along with water, and trees, there is light.  Light––even in the long gray Northwest winter days––will be ours as we look out onto a mature garden with camellias, wisteria, tulips, daffodils, grass, Japanese maple, benches, an arbor, a lath house and more.

The house on Maple Street is half an acre at the top of a hill in a development on the west side of the island near Manzanita Bay.  There’s a private beach for residents, a small grassy slope to store kayaks and canoes next to a set of cement steps that provide a boat launch at high tide, or access to the narrow beach at low tide.  There’s a picnic table and benches, a quiet place to write or daydream, just a two-minute walk from the house.

The house has a full basement and a perfect set-up for a studio apartment on the main floor.  The studio has a separate entrance and the best water views in the house.  My vision is to offer a writer’s retreat/bed and breakfast––editing and couching services along with a queen bed, desk, printer, network access, full bathroom and kitchenette.  We’ve already checked with the city and my dream is completely legal!

Our house (yes, I’m thinking positively) is a fixer, but in the best way.  It’s not falling apart; it’s just mid-century, like us.  Original linoleum, twenty-year old appliances, even older toilets and showers will need replacing.  We tore up a bit of carpet in the living room and there was beautiful hardwood floor underneath.  It’s livable while we modernize, a big consideration since we’re moving out of state.

The location is a long commute to Microsoft, where Kevin is one of the finalists for a job.  Kevin’s used to commuting 50 minutes or more one way, and we were looking for a lifestyle change, but try as I might, I didn’t feel at home in Redmond, Kirkland, Issaquah, or Woodinville, the closest cities to Microsoft, the way I did on Bainbridge Island (population 23,000).  And Kevin, who isn’t phased by traffic, not only took pity on me, but really wants us to live in a writers/artists community where I can flourish and live out my vision for hosting writers in our home.  He’s an incredible life partner and I’m blessed to be his wife.

He’s willing to spend two hours a day getting to and from work.  Thankfully, unlike our Bay Area, where getting to work is mostly a fend for yourself proposition, Microsoft, which employs more than 60,000 people in the Redmond area east of Seattle, provides vanpools and its own bus service.  Once Kevin gets the job (I’m thinking positive again), his commute will consist of a five mile trip to the ferry in Winslow (by bike in good weather, car in bad), a 35 minute ferry crossing where he can nap, check email, read the paper, and a 20-30 minute bus or van ride, where he can again “plug-in” and begin his work day.  The position he’s being considered for also has an international component, and because of the time difference involved, he’ll be able to work from home several days a week.

We’re looking forward to the incredibly long summer days and the opportunity to kayak in the evenings after a power nap and dinner.  In fact, all our conversations in the past few days are revolving around looking forward, to all that we need to do in order to leave this house before escrow closes, and to settle my sister, who lives with us and who will stay in this area, and ourselves into new homes.  It feels daunting when I’m churning the logistics in my own small brain, but completely manageable when Kevin and I are in conversation.  When he makes up his mind, stand back!  He knows how to get things done. 

His latest plan percolating through the night and brewed by lunchtime––Move the two of us and our three cats (with our daughters’ help wrangling them on an airplane) to our new home on Bainbridge Island in time to celebrate Christmas there with our two daughters, and possibly his mother and sisters who would help him drive up our car.  Then move my sister after us. 

I’m excited to follow his lead, and the Spirit’s, so thankful that our “something better” of “this or something better” appears to be just within reach.

Moving the Energy

The weekend before last I participated in a “Trance-formational Retreat” held in some yurts off grid here in the Santa Cruz Mountains.  It was an unusual activity for me, but I’m not working, I finished my degree, I packed too much for a house that hasn’t sold, I toured hundreds of homes online, I wasn’t motivated to write.  I wanted get on with my life, and if I couldn’t force change, I’d move energy. 

I danced blindfolded, drew a picture using symbols from the Maori tribe in New Zealand, breathed in manner designed to alter consciousness and release energy, joined a drum circle, began each morning with qijong, ate meals and had fascinating conversations with the conveners who lead sweat lodges and visioning workshops, and support themselves as transpersonal coaches, breathwork facilitators, and hand readers, among other occupations. 

In our gatherings each person was smudged with cedar and sage, the incense of burning embers wafted around us fanned by an eagle feather.  Our circle and space was claimed sacred, cleared for holy work, and a deep connection to one another.  The group wasn’t Christian or Un-Christian.  It was human, simply fully human.  Welcoming each person’s spiritual and religious journey and experience, a model not of tolerance, but of acceptance crucial for peace in our personal relationships and in the world. My Amens joined the Ahos and Namastes as we blessed each other.

When we drew, I called Jesus, my prayer partner, my husband, and a good friend from high school into my consciousness as we were asked to visualize best friends and healers in our lives. I kept them in mind as I began “to breathe.”  I had never experienced such a powerful manifestation of energy.  A paralyzing tingling called tetany coursed into my hands (a common response to breathwork, and a sign that I’ve been holding in my emotions and creativity).  Heat and comfort flowed into me from a laying on of hands lasting long after the fact.  My own touch brought the perceptible softening of another’s frame after qigong.  I have had glimpses of energy before––zinging acupuncture needles, the laying on of hands in prayer or blessing in my ministry—but the profundity of my retreat experience reminded me of how often I forget our connectedness as energetic beings, living in my private bubble.

I spoke during the weekend about the uncertainty and waiting in my life.  My husband leaving a job that was going to disappear, his search for work, listing our house for sale in July with no buyer traffic since then, our desire for a job for Kevin in San Francisco and a particular house for us in Pacifica where I could offer a writing retreat, the job not materializing, the house in contract with someone else.  I told the group that a former coworker of Kevin’s recommended him for a position with Microsoft, east of Seattle, that he applied for it and we were waiting to see if he’d be a final candidate, if we were going to leave our native California, and wondering what we’d do with our house.

I’d anticipated the retreat as time for inner work, attempting to heal very old trauma (re-birth is a big part of breathwork, healing the original trauma we all experience).  But that wasn’t the case.  My external circumstances were paramount in both my conscious and deeper mind, informing my entire weekend.

I came home with much in my head and heart to explore, particularly my Maori drawing, which I tacked up on my empty bulletin board—despite the real estate staging rule nixing personal displays.  My drawing, with its requisite symbols, resulted in a path that lead to a blue house near water and mountains in the Northwest quadrant of my paper.  A drawing that is both physic (as opposed to psychic) and prophetic.

Monday, the day after I returned from the retreat, our realtor told us to expect an offer on our house.  Thursday we began negotiating with the buyers. Saturday, Kevin and I were standing in an empty house for sale––a blue house––on Bainbridge Island with a peek of Puget Sound from the living room, wanting to call it home.  This Monday Kevin had a promising interview with the hiring manager and will return with the final candidates for another interview after Thanksgiving.

I’m not sure what is going to transpire, or in what order, but it is clear that things are happening.  After months of waiting, life is kinetic.  The energy that was pent up and waiting is moving and we are following it.

The Pain of Hope

In this blog I’ve been writing about the possibility of change in my life.  I’ve been anticipating the unexpected as my husband and I think about a new career for him and where that might lead us, envisioning us in a new community and a new home.  I have been hopeful and excited, even when my own plans haven’t seemed to materialize.  I trust that God has something better in mind.

I have been in Nashville this week completing a two-year program for pastors I began when I was leading a local church.  This program was designed for pastors fairly new to ministry who wanted companions on their journeys, people who understood that God designed us for community and wanted to live that out in their ministries.  I couldn’t have predicted two years ago that my journey would lead out of local church pastorate, but it did.  First to finish my Master’s degree in Creative Writing, and then into waiting for the next right thing.

While I have been reconnected with these Companions in Ministry, my extended family (whom I haven’t written about because their story is not necessarily mine to tell) has been gathered in its own sort of community.  A family journeying with medical staff formed a community of care and concern while one of our beloved suffers the tragedy of contracting West Nile Virus from an organ transplant.  The past months we have been hopeful.  Hopeful that there would be a definitive diagnosis, treatment and cure.  And when that couldn’t happen, hopeful that he would qualify for a transplant, receive one, and go on to live a healthy life with his wife.

Last night I spoke with my husband to find out that our dear one has no hope of recovery, no hope for any quality of life.  Just last week, before the virus had taken its terrible toll, the doctors and family all had hope for a full recovery.  In our closing worship service in Nashville this morning, Trevor Hudson, an amazing spiritual pastor from South Africa, who had been talking to us about the gospel themes of friendship, spoke of hope, and how devastating it is when hope brings us pain.  He didn’t have a clue about my family circumstances, but he could have been speaking right to us.  When our dashed hopes bring us to deep pain, it is there in our suffering that we struggle to claim a deeper even richer hope.

I thought about my family in California.  In the next few days, after we have all had a chance to say goodbye, life support will be removed and then, horrible as it seems we will hope for death.  A good death. And beyond that, what will we hope for?  I will hope for the grieving spouse a reserve of inner strength, the companioning of family and friends, the ability to walk into the darkness and not be consumed by it, the image of God’s light, however it comes to her, to carry her through the days, months, and years ahead as she lives out a life she did not expect or plan for.

In the meantime, we cry for our loss, for all we are going to miss and are just beginning to sense, and for the loss our dear one has suffered.  And in the pain of hope, I am thankful for the small mercies.  That neither my husband nor I have jobs, that our house has not sold, that we are still home in the same small town where our extended family lives, that we can be present in some small way to honor their lives and their suffering and their hope as family, as companions in our communal life.

Flying

I flew on Thursday.  Not in my dreams.  Not parachuting from a plane, which would’ve terrified me.  Indoors at IFLY SF Bay.  I flew in a wind tunnel.  I hovered three feet off the ground buffeted at 160 miles per hour.  And I loved every second of my two short rides, especially when my instructor grabbed onto my flight suit, leaped into the air and we zoomed from my three foot hover up into the tube, fifteen to twenty feet off the ground in a lovely arc. 

My flying experience was not simply an item completed on my Bay Area bucket list, but spiritually fitting and educational.  I shared the day with my dear friend I wrote about in a previous entry who has been on the path in front of me, modeling what it means to step out in faith past the familiar into the unknown, and trust that God, like our flight instructor Jason, will line you up to soar.  And there we were, clad in jumpsuits, goggles, and helmets, stepping into the wind and flying into something brand new.  We each flew alone, with our instructor, but as we did, we saw our friend, just outside the door, cheering and applauding, encouraging our bravery and effort.  I model for friendship and life.

Flying in the wind tunnel, I also learned that each small movement, bending the knees, raising the chin, adjusting the arms, has dramatic results.  Your feet might slip out into the waiting bay, or yours arms might touch the Plexi-glass.  If you look down and fail to arch your back, you might float inches above the floor, and need to be raised up by your experienced instructor.

I usually think of flying as a metaphor, as a bold, daring leap.  Before my indoor skydiving experience, I’d never considered flying as something a human would train for.  But that’s exactly what skydivers–-the closest we wingless bipeds get to flying––do.  They train in wind tunnels.  They learn optimal body positions and strengthen the necessary muscles.  They take classes and fork over lots of money to lean into turbo wind and practice.  They develop skills, and if they’re acrobatic, like my instructor, they zoom up and down the wind tube at speeds reminiscent of Superman, and walk along the walls like Spiderman throwing invisible silk for balance.  Like all great athletes, they make it look easy. 

The professionals make it look so easy, that people like me--craving joy and exhilaration––are tempted to hurl themselves into the air, without training or practice.  I would love to fly in waking life the way I do in my dreams, with grace and ease.  After our flights, with our adrenaline coursing and Cheshire cat-sized grins, Jason seized upon our enthusiasm to inform us of the classes we could enroll in the packages we could by.  We nodded, and I would’ve signed up right then, except that the tunnel is pricey and more than an hour’s drive from my house, and as I calmed down a bit, I that my house is on the market, remembered my husband is looking for work, and if I really think about it, I don’t want to be an expert wind tunnel flyer.  It was fabulous fun, but it’s not my passion.

We never know where our passion will take us.  When I think about my husband’s career in the corporate sector, it has always been about the philanthropic efforts of the companies.  He has both supported and envisioned their efforts to improve the lives of ordinary people in this country and around the world.  We had been looking exclusively in the SF Bay area for opportunities where he could continue to work out of this passion, and then late last week, a man who used to work with Kevin, contacted him and is acting as his personal recruiter, recommending him for a position in the Corporate Citizenship group of the largest software company in the world.  That job is in Washington State, and so we are imagining what our life might look like if he were to be offered the position.

There are times when I think my Internet research is obsessive.  I downloaded maps of bike paths, snowplow routes, and daily traffic volume in the city that is corporate headquarters.  My husband and I searched Redfin for homes in our price range, and are thinking about taking a trip there in November.  Our preparations might be pointless.  Or they might be the necessary steps that will enable us to fly when the opportunity presents itself.  Right now, only God knows, but I’ll adjust my goggles anyway. 

Since I’m In the Neighborhood

The change express I’ve been ready to board doesn’t seem to be running, at least not any time soon.  So what do I do while I’m still here, waiting?  Lately I’ve been raking, something I skipped last year, sweeping ten bins of oak and redwood droppings into yard waste bins once a week for over a month.  I’m sure our garbage service crew is quite tired of my productivity.  I am too, even though I’ve listened to several books on IPod while I’ve been wielding my rake and snow shovel (an oversized dustpan). 

Back in May when I finished the writing for my MFA and before my husband knew he was going to leave his job, I’d arranged to lead a memoir group through the recreation department of a neighboring town, and to offer writing help for junior high students at my local library.  I bowed out of the commitments before they started, hopeful that I’d be relocating mid-session.  But no one has looked at our house since July.  And my husband is submitting a job proposal to “the adoption group” at the world’s most innovative company, asking them to create a program and position he is eminently qualified to run, but not part of their current plan.  If they adopt, we have no idea how long the process takes.  So here we are for the foreseeable future. 

I have been retired from ministry for over a year and finished my master’s degree in August.  Since then, I packed up all our knick-knacks, photos, every item that distinguishes our home from a vacation condo.  Many of my books are packed, but there are enough on my shelves to keep me reading for several months.  All our CD’s, DVD’s, videos, are boxed and stored in the shed, but streaming Netflix in the form of Mad Men is entertaining us in the evening.  If I keep packing, I’ll end up unpacking.  I might need to unpack some as it is.  All my craft supplies, the words I cut from magazines for collages, and my yarn and needles are boxed and stored in the back corner of a shed in our yard, and I need a creative outlet.

What do I do with myself in the interim?  Time yawns before me.  Three months, six, I have no idea, but part of me doesn’t think it’s wise to plan to lead groups and help students on an ongoing basis.  So I undertake short-term projects.  I’m blogging once a week.  I set up a website.  In three weeks I’m attending the final gathering of a clergy group I participated in two years ago, even though I have left pastoral ministry.  I was part of a clergy writing group that came out of the initial gathering, and felt like my tribe.  It will be wonderful to reconnect with the writing clergy, as well as other participants.  Plus, the main speaker, Trevor Hudson (a white clergyman from South Africa) is fabulous and the Nashville campus is beautiful in the fall.  I wrote a short story and will be reading it and leading worship (the first time since June 2010) on October 30^th.  I scheduled a short story workshop for early November (let me know if you want details), and a trip the following weekend to Boise with my husband, choosing a city we had never been to and could reach within two hours using our Southwest airlines miles.

I spent money I’m considering an investment—in my marriage--on a two-person open top kayak, for Kevin and me.  We went kayaking off the Santa Cruz wharf in July for my birthday and loved it.  No matter where we end up, water will be close by.  We’re launching Friday for the first time in the beautiful Lexington Reservoir that runs parallel to the commuter’s Highway 17, and hasn’t been open to boating in years.  I’m thinking up a regional bucket list, since I’m still in the neighborhood. 

I could even turn my attention to the memoir I’ve been slowly writing over half a dozen years.  Without pastoral responsibilities and school requirements, and real estate and packing frenzies, my writing could become my main preoccupation.  If I am diligent, and spend less time checking Facebook and reading other people’s blogs, I might even finish my memoir in this in-between time.  And if I don’t, at least I will keep myself occupied in this itchy waiting time.

Careers

Careers was my favorite board game as a kid.  As players we wrote down our secret success formula before beginning play, a combination of fame, money, and happiness that had to total 60 points. I always weighted my formula toward happiness, which meant I usually “went to sea” rather than going to Hollywood (fame) or becoming a Uranium Prospector (money). 

Happiness was paramount for me when I played the game and when I pictured my future––however vaguely an elementary school girl can picture adult life.  Money and fame were necessary for the game, and for life, I supposed, but they didn’t interest me much. 

That’s still true today.  I’m most interested in happiness, although I have money and a certain amount of name recognition (Careers fame) in the United Methodist Church.  My husband has been an excellent monetary provider.  But making money, as in getting rich, has never been his motivation or mine.  We’ve been thankful for having enough and more than enough money at times, so that we have been able to help family and friends in significant financial ways.  Financial success has been the byproduct of my husband’s dedication, passion, commitment, intellect directed into the world.  Money and recognition (more Careers fame) are the only ways the corporation can reward employees.  Money and fame don’t bestow happiness, no matter what value my Careers game bestowed.  Happiness is up to the individual. 

It might be easier to make decisions about our future if I could pull an “Opportunity Knocks” or “Experience” card from the Careers deck and know how a job for Kevin at a cloud computing company in Palo Alto stacked up against a job for Kevin at a cloud computing company in San Francisco, or an internet service in Oakland.  How would the happiness, money, fame quotient be distributed if we stayed in our current home and town and he commuted an hour each way to work?  Would it be different if we moved to the Peninsula to the fog and a house with an ocean view?  What if we lived near a BART (commuter train) station in the East Bay and had a view of the bridge but also one straight into our neighbor’s house?

I’ve been looking at houses for sale near BART stations, thanks to a website called bayareaforsale.com. Then I’ve looked up the corresponding cities at City-Data.com, where I can find out all sorts of statistics about population, age, occupations, crime, businesses, churches, colleges.  Of particular interest to me are:  population size, crime rate, housing density and high temperatures.  The lower the number in each category, the more appealing the location is to me.  The lower the numbers, the happier I will be.  Factor in a water view, and my happiness points increase.

Some part of me is aware that my rankings are nothing more than a grown-up version of Careers, a game that prepares one poorly for real life.  I run search engines while Kevin embarks on his job search, looking for his own winning combination of money, fame, and happiness––recognizing all the while that the happiness component of the equation is entirely up to us.