Moving On

Today I listed my home for sale.

When I bought this quarter acre lot nearly seventeen years ago, I fell in love with the magnificent Oregon white oak, red leaf maple, and holly trees that command the front yard. The house just happened to come with them.

Over the years the trees have delighted me. I’ve been told that the oak tree is one of the three trees that Oak Grove was founded around. She is a majestic beauty. She has grown taller over the years, and her arms span the width of the property. People walk by and stop to admire her.

In the spring, the maple tree flowers before it leafs out. Those flowers become seeds called samaras, or ‘Polly noses’ as I knew them in my childhood. In the autumn, when the sun is at a low angle in the afternoon sky, the red leaves glow, and the tree looks like a controlled blaze. I have tried to capture that light on camera, but I don’t have the technical know-how. It’s a sight that is forever etched in my memory.

Branches from the holly, with its shiny leaves and brilliant red berries, have decorated my home for the holiday season every December.

• 

• 

• 

• 

I have found peace and joy tending to everything that lives on this little piece of land: the plant life, insects from bees to spiders, the birds who fill the air with their song, or who squabble over territory, and the squirrels, those thieving, but entertaining rodents.

Over the years I have planted assorted bulbs, rose bushes, a lilac bush, a hedge of ceanothus, and all sorts of flowers. I allow whatever shows up to do its own thing. One year an Oregon wild Iris volunteered. Now there are nine plants. Its flower is a beautiful, but subtle, lavender and tan, and in the fall a pod bursts to reveal a cluster of orange berries. The bluebells are also volunteers, bunched in various parts of the lawn. There is a patch of violets that circle the holly tree.

Every February I look forward to seeing the crocus push their way up through the hard, cold earth, promising that spring is near. I have seen them covered in snow, and this year, frozen like popsicles in the ice storm, but after the thaw, they continued to bloom, hosting bees hungry for nectar. Hugging the earth, crocuses are tiny and look delicate, but they are hardy, enduring in harsh conditions, sharing their cheer through it all. I learned a lot about living from the crocus.

Plants that weren’t gifts from the birds, or squirrels hiding their winter hoard, were gifts from friends thinning out their gardens, or found in curbside free boxes. I see how much they have spread across the yard, fighting the invasive ivy for space. In spring it looks like a woodland glen.

Many of the plants are fragrant. On sunny afternoons in early spring, the air is perfumed by violets. I sing to them, “Sweet violets, sweeter than all the roses, covered all over from head to toe, covered all over with sweet violets.” They smile shyly from their verdant leaves.

I planted the hedge of ceanothus because they are drought tolerant. They are wild lilac and are more fragrant than the lilac bush. The bees love their electric blue blossoms.

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

A lot of life has happened in this homestead: family dinners, cake on the porch with friends, watching sunrises, sunsets, the moon go through her phases, and other celestial events. I completed the novel I worked on for over twenty years here.

It’s been an emotional experience preparing and packing the house for sale. It’s astounding what one accumulates in seventeen years’ time, not to mention everything else carried along in a lifetime. I decided to make a clean sweep of it and get rid of as much as possible, except for a few pieces of furniture and kitchen items, but then there are books, letters, journals, photos, art, clothing… I am sentimental and have difficulty giving away anything that was a gift. I’m letting go of a lot more than things.

Along with the trees and plants, I’ve grown living here. I lived my childhood in Brooklyn, my adolescence in Hicksville, my young womanhood in San Francisco, and the prime of my life in Santa Barbara. Here I grew into maturity, learning how to become an elder of society. There are lessons in every stage of life, but I’ve always felt that although we grow older, being old is a matter of attitude.

I’d been dreaming of making a change for quite some time. Last summer my friend, Alice, sent me a link to Mary Chapin Carpenter’s song, Late for Your Life. The words struck a chord with me, “But the question begs why would you wait and be late for your life…” We were still in the midst of Covid19, and cases were escalating. When it was announced that vaccines had been approved, I promised myself that as soon as I was vaccinated, I would do what I dreamed of.

Once the house sells, I’m taking Freedom for a ride down the west coast, stopping to spend time in nature’s beauty spots, visiting longtime friends, and looking for that next place to call home.

I will admit that sometimes I think this is crazy. I love this spot on the map. I love the trees and plants, and all the creatures that live here. I love my house. It’s comfortable, maybe too comfortable, making me feel stagnant. When I think of jumping off into a future with no clear plan, I remind myself of a quote by Georgia O’Keefe, “I’ve always been absolutely terrified every single moment of my life, and I’ve never let it stop me from doing a single thing I wanted to do.”