Possibilities

Well, I have a lot to report. It's been awhile, hasn't it?

Let's see.

We painted and re-roofed our house. I removed all the grout from our bathroom floor. Added a new floor in the kitchen. Bought a new refrigerator. Painted and cleaned and de-cluttered and cleaned and de-cluttered and cleaned some more. Re-arranged furniture and took loads of boxes to storage. Weeded and pruned and mowed and clipped and trimmed.

Our house looks wonderful, certainly better than it has over the past four years that we've lived here. It's also on the market.

All that talk of "what if" finally got to us and we're considering the possibility of This Next Big Stage: living on an island. It's funny how things can seem so huge when you're in the midst of them, personally effected by each small decision. It's a small deal in the grand scheme of the tilting turn of the planet, but still, there it is: possibility, whispering through the shades at night and filling mornings with dreams.

We have the incredible luck of being able to stay in my mom's house while she is on vacation. It's a rustic old cabin/country cottage on an acre of waterfront land, overlooking Mt. Rainier and the Seattle skyline. My grandparents purchased the land in the 1930s and my mom grew up inside its tiny perimeter along with her two older brothers. Five people circled the 850-square-foot home and filled it with a history that I can feel when I stand there. It is a breathtaking place. Many things in the 80-year-old house need repair, but my mom makes it her home. I feel a certain understanding and connection to her as I wash dishes in her sink. It is true what they say: A place can ground us, it can remind us where we came from and where we want to go. It can help clarify things.

Cora loves her grandma's house. We picked blackberries from tilting tendrils and walked barefoot on the beach. Yesterday we spent hours in the sun making a castle from many 20-month-old sized handfuls of rocks and sand. We ran through a 90-acre park that I traced as a child and drove through neighborhoods tucked deep in the trees. While she napped on Sunday, Brian and I dragged our bed out on the deck and slept under the sun while cries of gulls and eagles brushed over us in salt air.

There are only a few traffic lights on the island. Most of the roads are bordered by lush, tall trees. There's a small, charming town at the center of the island, and you can reach Seattle in 30 minutes by ferry. Cora and I met Brian at the ferry landing yesterday evening. He couldn't see us, but we watched as he approached, his broad shoulders distinct against the sky on the top deck of the boat, peering out at his potential new home. Cora kept waving excitedly and then became so overwhelmed by the throngs of passengers rushing by that she ducked into my chest and could hardly say hello when he reached us.

Yesterday I walked along a road high above the water, watching waves crash against a familiar shore, and felt so excited and yet so displaced. Where would I find friends? How would I form a new community? Would I lose connection with all the people I care about because of the distance? I finally called a couple of friends and realized that just the voice of a long-time friend can calm even the most confused spirit.

Obviously, we need to sell our house before we make such a change. We've decided that the best approach is to let life figure this out for us. If we're meant to move, the house will sell. If we're meant to stay, we won't get any offers that convince us to pack our things and go.

In the meantime, we'll wait and explore and share our lives between Seattle and a possible future.