Soon I will be off for my annual summer pilgrimage to Northern California. A house/cat sitter has been secured and Otto & Iris are in good hands.
At times I get caught in the puzzle that is their mysterious health condition. The rest of the world rotates just outside the window. A dark shape lingers in the background of my days. It wants to be held close and studied, but I am trying to let it go in between vet appointments. Further study leads to deeper mysteries and all of it falls into the camp of what might happen. Meanwhile I’m starting to have doubts about the vet whose guidance I sought. He talks a lot, but it’s hard to understand the course he means to follow.
It’s hard to talk about and think about. I’m not sure about the path forward. More thinking leads to less clarity.
We’ll see. I’m pressing the pause button.
And heading to the sea cabin!
And trying not to think about the health of my kitten posse who are oblivious to everything except running sideways through Moss Cottage with puffy tails.
Sea air and headland paths await. Tree tunnels. Fog moving across the blonde grasses. A bigger brighter world outside of the LA basin.
At the end of August, Dottie is going to be a guest at the sea cabin too. If I were retired, I could join her. Alas, not yet.
Here we are in the mid 80’s on board a working vessel somewhere near Key West. Not quite 40 years ago. Oh the journeys we made and are still making. I think I was trying to look cute in my homemade tablecloth shirt and permed hair. Perhaps flirting with the deckhand who took our picture.
Long ago and far away.
I need to see some redwood tops spread apart by wind. Yellow beams of sunlight pointing down the dark road.
A turbulent sea of blue at the very end and a road that curves north along the mighty Pacific.
Meanwhile back at home, kittenhood continues. Oh the wonder of birds, glorious birds. Winged shadows across the floors and bed. So much to see outside the windows. Iris now weighs 7.8 pounds and Otto 11.
My little 9-month-old snowflakes.
What a wide world it is. The opposite of what one thinks when one is young. Full of unknowable things. Unpredictable. Ever-changing.
May we all move into it, brave and steadfast.
Sometimes I have fantasies of moving to the big trees. A new life in the forest. But I don’t know a soul in Monte Rio. Unless a dozen solo women join me on my quest to form an art colony for old ladies. Twice a week we can retreat to our yurts and canvas tents on the coast. There will be bonfires nightly. Except we will observe silent hours every other night and stare at the big dome of constellations spinning above us in companionable silence. The yarn workers will bring shawls for everyone. The bee keepers, honey. The grape growers, wine. I will bring books suited to each person gathered from free little libraries throughout the Russian River Valley.
I think I’m onto something here. I’ll keep developing my idea and periodically update you.
And of course, I’ll keep my eyes out for carrier pigeons bearing your notes from afar.