a few years ago in california

When I took a walk this morning the air was balmy and calm, and there was a rainbow splitting the sky. By the end of the walk great gusts of wind blew in and started to slant rain sideways. I made it back home just in time, which is always a surefire path to exhilaration—the knowledge of some misfortune, minor or otherwise, so narrowly missed. It’s been an odd winter thus far. The light is as thin and wan as it should be and the days are frightfully short, but we haven’t been plunged into any real sort of chill. It’s not unlike winters in Oklahoma, which have the potential to be harsh but just as easily may simply be marked by the absence of color.

It’s been many years since I wintered in Oklahoma, but December still makes me think of it, particularly the December that happened seven years ago. I’d just returned from six months of living in Kenya and everything about me was a bit blurry—my sense of self, my sense of time, my sense of home. I was eighteen and had no idea what love was, though I suspected it was something wonderful. There was a boy, of course there was, whose communications over the past few months had escalated from postcards to texts to video calls to finally a visit in person. I was so naive to nearly everything about the world, but I knew he was someone I didn’t dare let go. 

After breakfast and a walk and more coffee during which we danced around the issue at hand, we were less than three minutes from my parents’ house and I (knowing it was uncouth but running out of time and unable to help myself) blurted, “so what are we…?” and he grinned and looked at me and said “I guess we’re dating!” and I felt I was in a dream and then we were home and my mom raised her eyebrows in a question and I nodded and she gasped in delight and that was that.

Now I’m as old as he was then, which doesn’t seem very old at all. We’re proper adults now and we’re figuring it all out; some times have been easier than others and sometimes I get so irritated at him I could scream—but then again, I’m irritating to him too and really all that matters is that we know a little bit more about life than we did back then, and in another seven years we’ll know some more and we’ll keep building on that bit by bit. 

I remember back then—seven years ago and a little while after that, when we fell properly in love—I was so in love I couldn’t think, sleep, eat. It was exhilarating and it was exhausting. Sometimes I miss it and wonder where that passion has gone. We still love each other desperately but it’s more of a quiet, steady love, which of course is the kind of love that’s necessary to sustain a relationship for years and years. But we have things now that we couldn’t fathom back then. We’ve traded infatuation for deep intimacy. We know what it’s like to fight for one another. No longer do we have to settle for stolen moments and brief weekends together; we come home to each other every night and our future is certain in the sense that we are a duo for life. Now I tally up the years and congratulate ourselves for how far we’ve come; I grasp the hands and kiss the lips that are as familiar as my own and marvel that there was once a time we didn’t know if we’d belong to each other in this way. Things are good here on the other side.

newly dating babies

The days pass in variations of the same theme and so I rely on the natural world to delineate the passage of time. 

One morning I wake up and the leaves are gone, dawn shooting through the glass in a beam of colorless light. In terms of external parameters I don’t have much to show but in my inner world there are bulldozers and steamrollers. For some weeks now I’ve been regularly going to therapy—has my jumbled mind made it obvious? Every Tuesday at eleven I tremble in trepidation; every Tuesday at noon I am light and expansive. Diving inward and extrapolating is hard work, but my burdens aren’t as heavy and the darkness is cracked open by small rays of light. The truth is, I’d like to condense the experiences of my life into a tidy arc, then package them up with a bow and leave them all behind me. Ambiguity gives me a headache. I like firm endings and swift conclusions, or at least the ability to skip to the end for confirmation of a happy ending. But life’s not like the movies, is it?

Outside the wind is frantic and pulsing, sweeping away all evidence of life. I’m learning to create my own closure too. 

Life keeps delivering blow after blow. If there really is a balance between good and bad, we’re due to win the lottery soon. My sister’s therapist says to allow ten minutes each day to indulge in pure, seething rage. I try it. Annoyingly, I still find upsides everywhere. Things could be worse, I think. Black mold in our apartment deepens our friendships. Living so far from family makes us prioritize each other more. Stress strengthens our marriage. I just want to be mad.

I don’t understand the point, I lament to my sister. One day, Mimi agrees, we’ll look back on this year and wonder how we got through it. 

Maybe life can’t be quantified into neat equations. Sometimes bad things just happen and there’s no upside. Still, I have to believe that things sort themselves out eventually, at their own pace and in their own way. My husband is suspicious of a cosmic plan. But how else could I carry on?

spoiler alert: I have not been keeping my cool

It’s Tuesday morning and I’m sitting at a coffee shop trying to write about my fear of going to the doctor’s. It’s impossible to concentrate, though, because my eyes keep darting to my phone, willing it to light up with good news—either we got the fourth house we put an offer on, or we didn’t. In some sort of miracle, this particular house has been on the market four days and we’re only the second offer. It’s an impeccable mid-century house I’ve only ever dreamed of having, with a shiny kitchen, wooden ceiling beams, desert-y landscaping, and more windows than I can count. My hopes are creeping higher, but this is the post-covid real estate market and there is no precedent for anything. When we were writing our offer Jacob told our realtor to include the naming rights of our first- and second-born children. He was only half kidding.

Have you ever wanted something to happen so badly your teeth hurt, but your fate lies in the hands of someone else? It’s an impossible scenario that flies in the face of how we think the world should work. In an ideal world, we’re supposed to set a goal and work hard until it’s achieved. There’s no guidebook for when you’ve set the goal, worked hard, done everything right, and a faceless force vetoes your best effort for no clear reason.

When there’s no obvious path forward, sometimes distraction is the only answer. Outside of working and obsessing over houses, I’ve been throwing myself into meaningless tasks like looking for the perfect sandals and creating the ultimate summer bucket list. These things may seem inconsequential, but they allow me to have, in whatever small way, a modicum of control. While I’m researching strappy slides I’m not thinking about why the mind of a seller is so fickle. While planning a breakfast picnic I can forget, for a moment, that my fate is being decided by a stranger.

It’s Tuesday afternoon and I’m lying in bed intently rewatching the videos I took in the dream house, imagining the next chapter of our lives. This is something I haven’t allowed myself to do with our previous offers. But the sellers already verbally accepted our contract; it really feels like it’s going to work this time. I text Jacob to brainstorm furniture arrangement in the master bedroom. I look up short-term rental laws for the in-law unit in the basement. For the briefest moment, I envision Christmas with our family in the light-filled living room.

But I should know better by now. My phone finally rings and I pounce—it’s our realtor. “I don’t have good news,” she begins. “The sellers had second thoughts and decided to go with the other offer. I’m so sorry.”

A deep sigh is all I have in me. “Honestly, nothing surprises me at this point,” I respond. “It would’ve been too good to be true.” It still feels like a punch to the gut. Guess I’ll just go back to planning breakfast picnics until I have the courage to open zillow again.