May Madness

In my post Midsummer last (“The Good Old Summertime“), I detailed my personal relationship with Bealtaine–how it had always been a wild ride for me, a time of upheaval and overload, and sometimes a lightning-struck tower style explosion of life-changing chaos.

Then I had to go and tempt fate by adding, “Luckily, since I hit my crone years, stress overloads have generally been the worst Bealtaine has thrown my way, and the consequences have been no more dire than missing my window for a seasonally-appropriate blog-post.”

Omg, what was I thinking?!? That the Norns wouldn’t rise to the bait? That my little Bealtaine candles could conjure the protective magic of the mighty dual bonfires of ancient times? That the Trickster wouldn’t notice that I’d let my guard down? That crones were immune to May Madness?

So, here we are. It’s Bealtaine again. And my world is turning upside down and inside out. This May-tide I’m leaving almost all I’ve known and loved for nearly 60 years.

When we bought this property, I wholeheartedly believed this was it. I fully intended to be here till I died. Ah, but what do young people know about growing old? What can anyone know about what the future might hold?

We’re moving from Sonoma, California to Rochester, New York. Two reasons.

Reason #1 – We can’t afford to stay here.

In 2012-2014, when our house burned down and we rebuilt, we didn’t stay within our insurance limits. We put all we could into securing exactly the right architect (bless you, Adrian!), the right contractor (Jere and Martín, what artists, what craftsmen!), the right sub-contractors (it’s all here in the Be-Coming Home archive), the right materials, artisans, furnishings–into making this house a divinely perfect fit for us. Other retirees travel the world. Our retirement has been an extended staycation in our astonishingly beautiful, bespoke home in this gorgeous part of the world.

Roy always said we’d get 10 years in this place. I heard him, but never entirely believed him. I imagined we’d win the lottery (hard to win when you never play, I suppose), we’d inherit a gazillion smackeroos from a relative we never knew we had, or (long shot) we’d realize my clever fella had done the math wrong.

Of course, he had the right of it. Our time is up. We need to cash in on our one asset to get us through the years to come. And that means taking that cash and moving to where the cost of living isn’t so crazy high.

I get it … but it’s breaking my heart. Never mind that I was born in Chicago. I’m a Northern California girl. I love living on the Pacific Rim, and have done for more than half a century. My West Coast roots go deep.

Some siblings don’t get along all that well. My sister and I adore each other. The way we see it, we are a single soul that, for some strange reason, decided it would be fun to split into two people for this incarnation. Except for a few young-mother years when she was in Evergreen, CO and I was in Los Angeles, we’ve lived in the same area, the same town, or the same house. Since 1985 we’ve both lived here, in Sonoma. It is unthinkable to be leaving her. We are both in denial.

All but one of my best friends is here (and that one comes back here whenever she can). My best-est friend since high school is here. My ECD community. Redwoods, manzanitas, mule deer and their new-born fawns who graze and nurse outside my door. Mount Tamalpais and my parents’ graves. Fog-cooled evenings, lush winters, golden hills in summertime. Mother Ocean. My son’s and daughter’s besties – the son and daughter of my heart. My gong-fu sistahs and blood-relations are here in Sonoma or, at least, in this time zone. Just farther up or down the coast.

Except (thank heavens and Blessed Be) for my daughter and son-in-law who can’t possibly afford to live in feckin’ Wine Country. Which brings me to reason #2.

But first, it’s digression time.

I hate the whole “in-law” biz. It adds distance between people that simply doesn’t belong. Can’t I just call him “son”? I mean, isn’t it part of the marriage deal that it’s not just uniting two people, but uniting two families? Can we at least take a tip from Spanish and pick ONE word for our extended relations: son-in-law/daughter-in-law – yerno/nuera, mother-in-law/father-in-law – suegra, suegro? This hyphen-relation thing sucks.

Reason #2 – We’re not getting any younger.

My honey and I are at that creakier, more forgetful, managing-some-medical-conditions stage of life. We think we’re managing pretty dang well. Our brain lapses are still minor enough we can laugh them off. We tootle around, albeit a bit creakily. We are doing just fine, thank you very much.

But we’re aware that our getting-by-just-fine lives could disintegrate any old time. Our sweet, beloved, decade+ older-than-us neighbors taught us that. Gave us some in-your-face lessons on how suddenly things can change for those of us in our “golden” years. Showed us how dangerous it can be to cling to our homes, habits, notions of independence, and lifestyles too long. Things don’t turn out well when “getting-by-just-fine” means we fail to consider the possibility of abruptly becoming incapable of caring for ourselves or doing what needs to be done.

We were witness to the debilitating trauma of our neighbors’ getting-by-fine lives disappearing out from under them, almost overnight. We saw the burden it laid on their kids, how they had to upend their lives and rush out here from halfway across the country and halfway around the world to get their folks into hospital and assisted living, how they had to scramble to pick up the balls their ailing parents had dropped and would never be able to juggle again.

We don’t want to be those parents.

Our daughter and yerno have been pushing a move to where we are, so we can look after for you in your old age agenda for years. Since they Texit-ed (escaped Houston and moved to Rochester; a scenic college town, artsy, right on Lake Ontario, kinda close to where Roy grew up, plus his sister just bought a house there last July), they’ve been pushing even harder.

We’ve got to move, and our big-hearted kids aren’t just willing, but eager to have us old folks in shouting distance. (I’m telling ya, everybody should be so lucky!)

The omens are clear; it’s time to go. The wind is whipping the live oak trees into a frenzy … the Wild Hunt must be abroad tonight. Escrow closes tomorrow, Bealtaine Day. The movers arrive the day after.

I hope by taking this leap on our own volition, we’ll secure a softer landing than if we wait for the universe to toss us off the cliff. The softer, the better for old bones like ours. And our daughter and yerno aren’t just waiting for us at the end of this heart-wrenching tunnel. They are the light guiding us through it.

Heart-wrenches are inevitable. They strew the path before me like rose petals marking a bride’s path down the aisle. May your own paths through Bealtaine be strewn with blessings, and beauty, and bounty, and joy.