Breezy evening in the first part of August 2022

Thoughts on vanishing, longing, gratitude, and anxiety. Also retirement.

That title (and subtitle) is a bit much to bite off, I realize. The most important part of it, right now, however, is the breeze. Because that is what is embracing, enfolding me, right now. It’s coming from the west tonight, which means it’s coming off the Bay—the San Francisco Bay, that is. Which is where it usually comes from, and I intuited that because it’s fresh and cool, with a clean scent.

Sometimes, in the early mornings, especially if there’s fog, which there often is, especially in summer, the air is actually redolent of the sea. You can smell and feel the sea when you breathe. It’s very exciting. Equally exciting, however, is the wind—it’s never a breeze when it comes; it’s a wind—from down south. That’s the famous Santa Ana Wind, or the “Santa Anas,” as we call them. They blow through the mountains of southern California, inland winds originating in the Great Basin. They are hot, dry, and scented like perfume. In fact, they used to make me giddy with happiness. I used to stand on the little porch of the very home I still occupy, fling open the front door on a late summer or early autumn morning, and be hit by this delicious, sage-tinted, aromatic, sweet desert breeze. It was fierce, strong, warm, and fragrant, and I loved it.

That is, until it became (obviously) associated with fire.

That only happened a few years ago, as I’m sure you’re aware. That thing, where we say “fire season” now. Where we brace in fear for flames, near or far, and smoke—toxic, heavy, yellow smoke that blankets the Bay Area, hangs in the trees, and rains ash upon the windshields of all of the cars on the street.

But, where was I? I believe I was thoroughly enjoying the breeze off the ocean tonight. It travels up from the Bay to the hill where I live. It caresses the limber branches of my neighbor’s Chinese Elm which hulks over my garden. Each branch, each spray of leaves, moves independently, but they move in concert, in a distinct wave that is luscious to behold.

The Chinese Elm leaves are light, bright, glistening green at this hour: 6:27 p.m. on a summer evening in the first third of August. The leaves of the olive trees are silver-green, reflecting white. The sun shines in glinting prisms through my neighbor’s oak tree on the other side of my fence. The leaves rustle in a chorus, one tree answering another. In fact, they are in a dance.

Have you ever noticed that when you plant something in your garden, it often goes through an awkward phase? One so painful you almost feel like stripping it out? But that if you wait, the plant itself will figure out how to be beautiful and harmonious in its surroundings? It’s true. I’ve seen it time and time again.

Just this week, one of the seaside daisy plants I placed in my front yard sort of tipped over. It was leaning in an ugly way toward the ground. I felt affronted. Betrayed. A little unsure of how to respond. Do I cut it? Trim it up? Take it out? Bury it deeper? Simply water it more? Maybe it flopped over because it was thirsty. Instead, I did nothing, mostly because I didn’t know what to do, and I got busy. A few days passed. When I looked again, the seaside daisy had sort of melded itself to its neighbor, another seaside daisy, offering its faintly lavender, yellow-centered blooms in one giant combined bouquet. And guess what? It was pretty. It was great. It was harmonious.

I’ve been a literal basket case lately, and the truth is, it’s probably because I haven’t been writing. Again. I know from long experience now that when I don’t write, my life flattens. When I don’t write, my anxiety rises. When I don’t write, I feel invisible. I lose track of my life, and life in general. The days, weeks, hours, blur together. Nothing feels special. Everything feels… hopeless. Useless.

“Write for your life” was the title of a book I saw once. It resonated. I often feel, and have said before, that without writing I feel I literally don’t exist. I vanish. And I have been vanished for months now.

What would happen if I were to finally honor the impulse in me to write, to record my life story, in whatever way I happen to find? What would happen if I could stop worrying about wasting people’s time, or being embarrassed, or not good enough, or too open, or, or, or—and just write? Simply because I want to? With no thought of an “audience,” etc.? I think that’s the only way it will work for me.

The breeze is really fine tonight, as I’ve said. It ruffles the fur on dear old Daisy, stretched out at my feet. A covey of birds with high-pitched tweets is singing its heart out, it’s collective heart.

Summer is winding down, and I’m not sure what kind of summer it was, or I dare not say. My daughter came home from college. She didn’t want to stay with me. I personalized it horribly and got very hurt. She said, “Mom! I want to have sex with my girlfriend! Can you understand that?” I said, feebly, “Lots of people have had sex at my house.” Instead, she lived in house-sits, two of them.

It’s done. She’s gone, back to Los Angeles, and that’s okay. It really is. The truth is, my daughter has freed me. She’s made it abundantly clear that she doesn’t need me. She eschewed her childhood bedroom not just this summer, but also last Christmas, and last summer. She’s launched, she’s fledged, and I should be only elated. And you know what? I kind of am… Or, at least, I feel a faint glimmer of the possibilities…

And they are… you guessed it: Life for me. Life for the mother. Life for the woman who took care of so many.

I’m in an incredibly precious and unique time. My father died a few years ago. I was, I am, devoted to him. I would never have left while he was alive. My dear friend, my children’s godmother, died, cruelly, of ovarian cancer eight years ago. My mom died long ago, when I was in my mid-twenties. My son is launched. My daughter is launched. And my bi-polar ex-, whom I cared for in my home on and off for 17 years after breaking up, is now living with his family in Venezuela.

This affords me the unique and intoxicating chance of… doing something special. Of “retiring,” or at least walking away from “the man,” (i.e., the corporation).

In a mere eight years, I managed to save enough for a modest retirement. I have a valid EU passport in my file cabinet. And every day for the past several years, I have googled Italy. Le Marche. Abruzzo. Sometimes, northern Spain (Asturias).

I think I should move to one of these places for a few years. Exercise my EU passport. I feel privileged and fortunate to have one. I realize that many U.S. citizens can’t retire, or are afraid to, because their healthcare insurance costs will jump dizzyingly if they leave too soon. They must pay the gap between when they retire and when Medicare kicks in. And that gap can be sizable and really wittle down your retirement savings.

That’s not true in my case.

So… resuming this newsletter will be about this. These dreams, this time of life, the options, the opportunities, the conundrums, the questions.

Join me, won’t you?