Indecision

Indecision is our new bedfellow. I am tired of him. He sits at the end of our bed, his back tucked neatly against the footboard, and he smokes. He's not sure whether he likes expensive cigars or sweet cigarillos, and he waxes poetic about the benefits and drawbacks of both, while puffing--sometimes slowly, sometimes hurriedly--through cigar after cigarillo after cigar. I prefer cigarillos, he says, and he stares narrowly at me, daring me to disagree. I heave a sigh of relief. At last, I think, he's decided. No more talking about such an inane topic. But, no. A few minutes later he unwraps a fine Cuban cigar and waves it beneath his nose. It's the seduction of a cigar, he says. It's impossible to resist. He tilts his head back as he inhales, and I throw a pillow over my head to escape the smoke and chatter.

Recently we made the mistake of telling him that we were undecided about where to live. Never confess such a thing to Indecision. He'll run away with your question and never give it back. He falls asleep talking about Seattle and wakes up with a point or two about Bainbridge Island. He points to land and water and boats and good schools and peace and quiet and says, Ah yes! Bainbridge Island! It is decided! Then he draws back in concern and reveals the other hand: Zoos and friends and Green Lake and an easy commute and tons of grocery stores with tasty, organic food at a reasonable price. Oh no! he says, I was wrong, all wrong! It's Seattle all the way! Get thee back to the mainland, people, where you can have a social life and buy tasty gluten-free bread!

The thing is, this is how it was for me last week on the island: I spent the first three days in a relative state of bliss. I spent nearly every day listening to waves lap on the shores of hidden beaches. Ran on a dirt road around a 90-acre park and waved at bunny rabbits in the bushes and ducks bobbing in the pond. Let Cora run freely around my mom's property without once worrying about her crashing into concrete or opening the fence and escaping to a too-busy road. One morning we all got up early before Brian caught the ferry to work and we went into town to Blackbird Bakery, an enchanting little spot with tasty treats and good coffee. (They impressed me with their delicious gluten-free berry muffins and chocolate chip cookies. That's it, I thought, they have gluten-free treats. We're moving.) Cora and I spent an entire morning calling to seagulls and sea lions and throwing rocks in the water, pausing sometimes to lay back and stare at the sky. We walked to quaint coffee shops and watched ferry boats make their lazy path through Rich Passage.

There are so many charming places where we could live on the island that it seems silly to worry about it, even though we do. We want our next house to be special. We looked at a house that had a rather uninspiring feel to it, but which was situated on a large lot about four houses up from the beach. After wandering through the house, we walked down a winding country road to the beach to find people sitting around a campfire singing You Are My Sunshine. There's a pier near there, too, and there were a number of fishermen casting and reeling with their backs to the setting sun. On the way back we saw the carolers--spanning three generations, it looked like--singing and holding hands while sparks from their cozy fire flew up in the air. Could this be any more idyllic? we asked each other. Did they hire these people to make this seem like the most romantic place to live in the world?

I mentioned this before, but I'll say it again: On the island, when you drive, you have trees on either side of a two-lane road. It is scenic and clean and uncluttered. There isn't a single neon sign on any road. This might not be a big deal to a lot of people, but you notice it over there. It's nice.

We were all set to move. It was gratifying. We thought, at least we're not crazy. At least we really did go to all that hard work to put our house on the market, and for a reason. But then by Friday I wanted more options. I didn't want to go to the same park or the same strips of beach. I wanted something different, and I didn't want to drive very far to get there. The smallness of the island felt suffocating. I wanted the option to walk or drive 20 blocks to a grocery store. I wanted Brian to get home quickly, and the boat was running late so Cora and I wandered through town for several hours, waiting for him. I wanted to get up in the morning and have a full list of options to choose from: breakfast at Portage Bay, a walk around Green Lake, a hike in North Bend, a barbecue with our friends.

Friends. That's the thing that would make the island more comforting, less small. I don't know anyone there.

Friends are locations in themselves, can offer whole worlds with their perspectives and cozy kitchens.

(Yes, I know how whiny this sounds. The complaints of city-folk can be nauseating to listen to; I'm sure mine are no different.)

But still. That's the way it is.

That's the thing that is (currently, at least) making our decision tip heavily in the direction of Seattle. There are so many things to do here--hundreds of parks with play structures, rather than just a handful. And adventure parks in the city, too--Discovery Park. The Arboretum. Green Lake. Volunteer Park with its greenhouses and sprawling lawns. Wading pools. The zoo, aquarium, and tons of libraries.

And if we were to stay, would we stay here? Would we buy a new place in the city? Would we rent? If we moved, would we rent on the island? See how it goes for awhile?

We're not sure. We're still deciding. We're creating a lot of turmoil for ourselves which is rather exhausting. We're making Indecision fat with our questions.

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.

Kitchen table

We've been reconfiguring and redecorating our house a bit over the past few days. We found a set of beautiful chairs and a couch, and the addition of just those three pieces throughout our house has made things feel more organized and fresh.

My favorite change is in the kitchen. We removed an oversized buffet and replaced it with a small table and two chairs. Cora is big enough now to sit in a regular chair (esp when it has a booster seat). Today she sat there swinging her legs and munching on celery and hummus while I made us a tasty little meal of green beans, salmon burger with cheese, and cucumber slices. Then we sat together and had a little chat, with lots of comments about our food.

Things have been more crazy these days. We've been running around like mad on a ton of errands, going to a bunch of summer barbecues, swimming a lot, and trying to stay cool. Cora has been a very whiny little bean. Everything she does lately is designed to get my attention as quickly as possible, which basically just involves lots of wild faces accompanied by shrieking.

Something about that smaller table and our intimate little placement in the kitchen made our lunchtime today feel special instead of Oh Crap, Now She's Pitching Food with Her Fast Hand. Instead of wanting to hurry to the next project or task, I loved sitting there together, staring at my little daughter poke carefully at her food and look up at me with bright eyes.

Things she said:

Listening to a robin: "Mama! Baby bird singing!"

Touching the picture above the table: "Daddy's special painting." This insight was quickly followed by her trying to topple it.

Shouting at me with her mouth wide open in the appearance of great excitement: "Mama! Celery! Look!" (Showing me the strange stringy bits at the munched end of her celery stick.)

Listening to a tired crow's caw: "Sad bird." (Said with head cocked and eyes showing deep reserves of sympathy.)