The markers, with which Jeb has a fistful, sketching with the Muse at the kitchen table while I quickly slide an underlay beneath his renderings?
Some kind of press cycle on the washing machine I never use?
A type of vacation that’s the title of a Jim Jarmusch movie, an Aerosmith album, and a getaway that I will doubtfully attain at such length in this lifetime?
A resident?
As in, the Bohemian. Whose foreign-born body has been granted the card – more sci-fi holographic, than green – that says he gets to stay. With conditions, that is.
A resident with conditions.
Like us all.
Impermanence is a principle of harmony. When we don’t struggle against it, we are in harmony with reality. – Pema Chodron
Our island is in a flash flood watch. Thunder and lightning through the night. Nearly three inches of rain per hour in some areas.
With wild weather outside, we are giving thanks to be warm and dry within the safe shelter of home. Rain pours down upon our roof and the sky lights up in flashes. A booming distant crack follows not long after, rattling us.
The Bohemian looks at me. “And we are thinking to camp at the beach for a couple months this winter?”
I sigh. “Well…”
We live in the tropics. Even in this inclement weather the temperature gauge hovers around a comfortable 70 degrees. It can get soggy but not, technically, cold.
The theme of home is in the air for us, as we enter the final month of our sublet and do not yet have a new place lined up. Yesterday’s post recounted a moment of the Bohemian and I gazing across fields at our hoped-for dream home. That place is quite possible, but only a potential reality in the distant future. Between now and the new year, we need some home base, even if it is temporary.
Hence the talk of camping. We thought, why not? Folks save their pennies to travel to an island paradise and pitch a tent on a tropical beach. Why not set up camp at our neighborhood beach park and begin every morning to the sound of waves lapping at our tent door?
We’ve mentioned it casually to Jeb, who instantly goes to practicals. “What about the bus stop?”
“Yeah, it’s close by. I’d get you there like always, no problem.”
I’m thinking internet. Posting here to the Archives would mean crafting pieces on my laptop then piggy backing on the local bakery’s wi-fi in the mornings, in order to upload my daily pieces.
It would be an adventure. All of our things in storage. Homework by headlamp. Public bathrooms. Cold showers. And…those heavy winter rains.
Moodah the dog is curled up in the Bohemian’s lap as another dance of lightning and thunder shake the sky above our sturdy cedar home. I shut the laptop screen that shows no new rentals on our local classifieds’ website. I sit down by my husband and the dog.
“Yeah, winters can be wet and stormy.”
No matter how we look at it, there is no perfect resolution in this moment. No certain outcome.
What we do have are two empty tea cups and rain falling on the roof outside. We will soon get cozy in our bed and, eventually, this storm will pass. We will hope to wake in the morning (because we realize, even that is never guaranteed). We will continue taking steps to try to find our next place. Try to strike the balance between taking action and just letting go to trust. Try to follow our instincts as well as our minds.
In framing our current dilemma, we’ve asked each other this question: “What’s the worst that could happen?”
Truth is, we’d end up sleeping on a tropical beach, watching sunsets ocean side and living just a little closer to the elements. I think we could weather that storm.
We can see it from the cemetery. This house that we think may be our next home.
As an albatross flies, it’s about a mile and a half away from us. We stand beside hundred-year-old lava rock grave stone markers, in a simple cemetery just down the street from where we currently reside. Between us and the peeking A-line rooftop of our dream house, lie grassy meadows, one steep valley, and several property lines with fences. Of the house, we can see nothing but windows.
“I don’t know…if we could walk straight from here, it would probably take 15 minutes to get there. It’s not far.”
I’m assessing distance while the Bohemian nods, his arm around my shoulder.
“I’d like to see a light inside. You know, something that warms it up,” he says.
It is sunset and the light is fading. The distant house windows are dark, reflecting nothing distinguishable from this range.
“How about those old-style lamps? You know the ones that were at the front of houses on the posts?”
“Didn’t those burn on kerosene?”
“Yeah, maybe…” The Bohemian laughs.
We are living between our dreams and the practical, trying to dance this balance between the two.
The practical facts of our current situation are as such:
The rental agreement on our current sublet ends in four weeks, on the first of November.
We believe that we may be able to actually settle for the long-term(ish) in the house peeking at us from across the fields. However, that scenario is contingent on several factors completely out of our control, which will not reveal themselves until November. Should all bode well, we still would not be able to begin dwelling in the dream house until December or January.
Hence, we are in a 2 month limbo, looking for something temporary, while wishing on a hoped-for-but-not-guaranteed abode.
At this juncture, I will add that Craigslist currently shows 12 long-term rental listings, only two of which, are on our side of the island, with one of those listings asking $3000/month for a two bedroom, utilities not included.
It feels good to look out over green pastures at the only roofline in sight, imagining ourselves lighting up that house with warm, golden hues from the inside. As the sky fades into grays and lavenders, we stand at the cemetery taking in the view. As we do, the dark shape of an owl glides low above the meadow just before us.
It is special there in the quiet. The silent swoop of an owl. The setting sun with clouds outlined in pink. The scent of plumeria lifted to the breeze. The old-time spirits of the cemetery, deep in the ground, marked by crumbling, moss-covered markers.
As we turn to leave, I think about the souls that rest there. How each human lived a life, however short or long. That they each got their chance to move about the earth and live a lifetime. Five senses, looking, listening, touching, tasting, smelling. And dreaming…they all got a chance to dream. Hopefully, they got to live their dreams.
The Bohemian and I walk side by side, step out of the cemetery gate and back on to the quiet, two-lane road. I hear the flip-flop sound of our summer sandals as we move.
This is our chance to walk upon the earth. For how long, we do not know. We get to be here. To sense it all. Maybe even lean into a sixth sense and follow it across the fields. Together, we can dance between the classifieds and that distant roofline with dark windows.
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