Landing in Sonoma County on September 22, 2022 was the result of a well-thought-out plan to relocate from Washington to California. Except that it took place several months earlier than originally conceived. All moves and life transitions have their imperfect moments and hiccups. I, for one, will embrace my reassurances from friends and writing and dreams or other subtle signs that all will be well.
At the time of my landing, I was enrolled in an eight week writing journey with an online group exploring the meaning of road trips and the development of our individual sense of self. The following poem emerged during the five-week housesitting assignment that made my transition to the County more personal and doable on such a short transition schedule. I am particularly indebted to Robert Crane and Obe Lynde for entrusting their home, pets, and gardens to my care while they railed by train for a much anticipated post-Covid journey. They warmly welcomed me to the area and were sensitive to the stresses of my transition and the subsequent death of one of my siblings while I was there. The poem below is dedicated to them.
Good to Know
I awoke before dawn
Hearing words within a dream:
“Good to know.”
Feeling welcomed
In a new bed in a new space
Among new friends
I’m having a
House sit, pet sit,
Garden sit moment
A writer’s road trip
Recalls yesterdays lived.
Of hugs and hellos,
Of tears and goodbyes,
I cannot lie ---
It’s difficult to trust this.
For some weeks hence
I am the writer, sitter,
Explorer woman
Uncertainties
permeate this landing
In Northern California
Sonoma County’s
Golden hills, her
shrinking woodlands
Pluck a dusty cobweb strand
In my mind. I’m resonating
with unfinished, broken dreams
Of another coastline,
Of clinging Cormorants’ nests,
Of blue herons beneath golden eagle skies.
The inland canyons,
Once softly treaded by cougars,
Bobcats, the odd black bear, who
Sniffing the air
Not far from my garden beds
nestled in an old orchard
Where my babies once played,
Their clean diapers hung, swaying
White flags on make-shift lines
Strung between the crooked arms
Of apple trees, encircled by
Sentinels of plum, apricot, and tall grasses.
It was those trees, those trees
who listened; my prayer-poems uttered,
almost inaudible, through five seasons.
From barely budding
to full blossom, from fruiting
to harvest, from pruning to rest.
Matching the sequence
of my body’s last gift there,
a fourth child.
A ginger daughter
Who is now becoming
Her true adult self
As are her siblings ---
The first fruits of a
now empty womb.
I gladly carried
Their spirits within
Celebrating all life.
My lacy stretchmarks
Are marvelous proof
Of my fruit bearing seasons,
Seasons lived in hope
But never quite certain
Of my harvest or my home.
A third career is opening here,
In a land before time, unknown
but not unknowable.
By intuition and grace
I packed and stored
My tiny household.
I live today
On decisions of yesterday
And hopes for tomorrow,
Now destined to unfurl
on the curve of love
and kindnesses lived.
A long-term home
Is in the air
I can feel it
We haven’t landed
At the same time
And place but we will.
My library will be
Re-shelved; my bed unwrapped,
Strategically placed
To cradle my body,
And this purposeful
Wanderer’s heart.
I see another garden
Another orchard, reaching
me through my dreams.
My day thoughts proclaim
“Soon. Soon. Soon…”
Is this my prayer or the land’s?
My destiny flutters,
Monarch-like on the path
of map-less maps
Gaps closing between
every move, every choice,
every new, awakened voice.
When Father Time
loosens his grip.
Timeless Mother’s arms
Comfort and remind me
of promises to come:
A home of my own.
This is good to know.
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