“A fishing pole, tennis racket and guitar – I’d say you guys are all set” Bo and I were standing with our stuff at the bus stop in Roche Harbor on San Juan Island, when a man pointed out our good fortune. We’d just spent a few days with friends on their yacht cruising around the islands, hiking, eating, drinking and generally embarrassing ourselves at little island resorts. Now Bo and I were on our way back to our cabin on a smaller island, just the two of us, to finish out our week’s vacation with rest.
Our life is so idyllic, even strangers notice it at bus stops. But in my head I’m a swirling dervish, dodging potential gloom from every angle. I’m not proud of my neurotic proclivities, but underneath my tanned, smiling exterior I was thinking:
“Why don’t our friends recycle on their boat? I must have had eight plastic bottles of water that just got dumped in the trash. At least we disposed of our trash on land and not at sea, unlike most of these other yachts in the harbor. Forget trash, just think of all the diesel fuel we used to cruise the islands. Thank God they paid for it, but what about my carbon footprint? Just look at those condos. They weren't here last time. This place is getting too built up. Well, at least the condos have a dense footprint and fit in with the architecture of the resort. The San Juans are getting too populated with people’s second homes and losing their local, down to earth charm. Why are all of these people moving here? Wait a second, we bought a place last year – we’re part of the problem. But no we’re not because our house is small and we’re reforesting the land around it. The birds will thank us. And I’ll never drive a hummer. I’ve been eating too much this weekend, I really need to go for a run today. Do you think J and I will be offended by the “Green Boating” book I left on their yacht?….”
One might say I’m conflicted. Other people would just enjoy hanging out with the friends on their friend’s big boat. I’m not sure I’ve ever been able to completely lose myself in the moment and rejoice in it. I used to think my never ending analysis of any given situation was OK, even helpful. If I could detect a problem with the way things were, then I could be on my way to a solution. ”Global warming? No problem. Let me at ‘im” Best intentions aside, lately I’m realizing that my need to analyze is less about philanthropy and more about control. If I can remain in control of situations, I can keep bad things from happening.
But I can’t keep bad things from happening. My dog’s death taught me that last year, although I was already old enough to know better. I did everything I could to protect her, but an accident still claimed her life. Nor can I keep the condos from going into the little harbors, or stop global warming, or stop worrying either. By admitting my complete inability to control these things, I hope that I can open myself up to just enjoying my blessings. I’m on vacation for God’s sake. That seems like a start, like some step on another kind of 12 step program: 12 steps to stop worrying and just enjoying life.
I’m not advocating hedonism either. I’m not looking to pretend that the bad stuff doesn't exist or to abdicate my responsibility for it. I’m looking for a balance, some creative tension between living the good life, and living a good life. Where does my true charity start, and my controlling nature end? I have a feeling that it lies in appreciating the moments of my life for what they are and not for whatever outcome they hope to accomplish, be those moments relaxing on a beach, volunteering in a church or working at a corporation. I don’t control the outcomes – God does. So today, back at our cabin on a small, green island in a cold blue sea, I practice being in the moment, by practicing my guitar, playing Patty Griffin’s Oh Heavenly Day:
“Oh heavenly day. All the clouds blew away. Got no trouble today. With anyone. The smile on your face, I live only to see. It’s enough for me baby, it’s enough for me. Oh heavenly day.”
I’m in our cabin’s garden by the sea. My partner of ten years is clearing our “orchard” of some weeds, trying to get a few fruit trees to grow in this cool, salty climate. The sun is shining. We have several days of vacation left. I am happy.
“Tomorrow may rain with sorrow. Here’s a little time we can borrow. “
I hear the barge before I see it pull up to the county ramp. From our place we can see the boats coming and going, so we can see the bulldozer and a cement truck riding on the barge’s deck. More houses are going up on this little island. The main builder who lives here has taken to clearing spaces in the woods where someone could build a house, before anyone’s purchased the property. It’s his way of helping potential buyers imagine themselves on our island, but to me it’s just unnecessary: down trees and ugliness.
I get back to the task at hand, pulling four foot tall brown grass from the base of an apple tree not much taller. I think back several months ago, when Bo and I brought these fruit trees over on another barge, when the land was still bare and brown, when we dug the holes for these trees and went for a brief walk, only to discover the holes full of water on our return. Now the earth is bone dry and covered in a tall field of “weeds,” but the fruit trees are still alive, all eight of them, despite periods of long neglect when we’re two hours away in Seattle. I resist the urge to complain, once again, to Bo about bulldozers and clearing, about big houses and waste. Instead I move onto the next fruit tree. Bo suggests a short walk down to the beach.
“Forget all your troubles in these moments so few.“
Bo walks up to the barge’s captain and asks about some puppies. Our neighbor down the road said the captain was selling Golden Retriever puppies. We still miss our dog. We’re so busy. Are we ready for puppies? What if they’re too lonely? Will we have the time to train them? What will we do with them when we fly? I watch Bo step from the stern of the barge toward the bow, negotiating the ramp down to the beach with much greater finesse than the bulldozer. It’s another captain that’s got puppies, but Bo has his phone number and some hope.
"Oh we can right now the only thing that we really have to do is have ourselves a heavenly day. Lay here and watch the trees sway.”
When we get back to the cabin, Bo leaves a message about puppies, changes his shoes and we’re off for another walk. We try to pack as much activity into our cabin days as we can to offset all of the eating and drinking. Plus what else are we going to do in this place with no TV or internet?
We walk to the other side of the island, where the houses are fancier than ours, in search of a home an architect friend mentioned. We don’t find it, but we see a new home going in, not one of the big monsters I rail against, but a small, good looking home that respected the footprint of the land and the aesthetics of the neighbors. It sits high on a rocky hill, nestled among a grove of madrona trees and douglas fir. We approach the construction site and we’re welcomed into the stick framing by the builder – a man who wheel-barrowed several tons of sand up a mountainside in order to avoid heavy equipment near the native trees. We talk for a few minutes about the house he’s building and about our cabin. The builder’s familiar with our place as soon as we mention the previous owners by name. Everyone on this island knows everyone else. The builder comments on our landscaping:
“How did you like all of that clearing those guys did on your property?”
“We weren't’t very happy about it” Which is a complete understatement for how pissed Bo and I were a year ago when we came up, two weeks before closing on the property, to find most of the understory plants cleared to bare earth by bulldozers – the result of a misunderstanding between our aesthetic and the previous owners.
“Yeah, he left you a really nice field of nettles didn't he?”
“And thistles.” I reply weakly. “We’re letting it all grow back to restore the land back into forest.”
“Good for you” the builder says in that way that either means “Good for you” or “Go F@$# yourself” I’m not completely sure if I’ve overstepped into eco-earnestness.
Bo and I leave hopeful that the homes going up on this island will live in harmony with their neighbors: human, animal and plant alike.
We get back to our cabin and relax on the deck looking out at the sea. The phone rings. It’s a woman returning Bo’s call about puppies. I listen with one ear to Bo’s half of the conversation: “Oh. OK. Well thanks anyway – or maybe you could call me if they change their minds.” The puppies are already spoken for. Fate has answered no on these puppies – for now. I can’t tell if I’m disappointed or relieved.
The sun’s still high in the sky this time of year, but Bo and I start dinner. He makes corn tortillas from scratch – he’s been trying to perfect this art since I got him the electric griddle he requested last Christmas. (We’re true romantics – he asks for gifts of kitchen appliances, and I comply happily.) I chop onions, carrots, garlic and peppers for fajitas. He husks the corn, placing the husks in a large ceramic dish with the other food scraps for me to toss far into the woods later. I steam the cobs in a big red pot that Bo bought at the Goodwill last year, on his two week yard sale shopping binge to stock our “new” cabin. We serve ourselves in the kitchen from the stove – the way we always dine together. We sit down at the table in our bay window and gaze past the ailing fruit trees, over the field of eight foot tall thistles and nettles through the big leaf maple, western red cedar and alder to the sea. Bright yellow goldfinches, at least a hundred of them, hop from one purple thistle bud to another, pulling soft white hair from the spent thistle blossoms. Below them fox sparrows tease grass seed from tall amber blades. I’ve never seen so many goldfinches in one place before. I guess goldfinch love thistles, their feast an chance consequence of someone else’s bulldozer. What a difference a year makes.
Bo and I watch the birds and the sea. We savor this meal, together in this beautiful place, in this moment. Later we will walk down to the south beach and sit in the sunlight. Tonight we will go to bed early.
“Oh can’t see no other way, no way, no way. Heavenly day, heavenly day, heavenly day.”
