I wake before anyone else and take a
walk by myself. I love those days
when I start my day with a walk.
No shower, no coffee, no breakfast, no lounging around the house; just
put clothes and shoes and go walking.
My mind is in a beautiful place from a good night's sleep, calm and
content, uncluttered by the ten thousand things that clamor for attention
throughout the day. Here, in the
country, along this country and down this gravel road where I walk, I am a
letter of peace inside the envelope of silence, sealed, waiting to be sent into
the day that awaits me. It's a
good place.
Back at the house, the others have
woken. Josh is mowing the
lawn. Jenny is cleaning the
counters. Nathan is organizing the
deck. Stacy is putting items in
their proper place. They are
hoping to sell this house, a beautiful house they have lived in for eleven
years, and are getting it show ready for a potential buyer who's viewing it
this morning. This house that they
bought eleven years ago as a collective experiment, living with several other
friends and family, those friends and family eventually moving out to pursue
other way of living, their own paths.
This house where Ezra was born and raised. This house where Finn was born and raised. This house full of memories. This house full of living and loving
and learning and laughing. And
yet, now, a house that no longer suits the needs of the adults who live
here. The commute into the city
has become too long. The ample
space and maintenance too much. We
change. What we want from
life—what we need from life—changes.
And so, Stacy and Josh and Jenny and Nathan, the remaining adults of the
Venetta House hope to sell it and we need to be out of the house by ten.
Not a problem: Stacy and Jenny are
going to Mary Jean's bachelorette party at a winery. Nathan and Finn are taking a walk together somewhere. Josh, Ezra, and I are also taking a
walk along the Willamette River.
What I've enjoyed about this journey is I've gotten to spend time with
everyone one on one and everyone in various combinations. Josh and Ezra right now, for example,
and after we drop off Ezra at his grandma and grandpa's Josh alone as we walk
to the Farmer's Market, buy pad Thai from a food booth, an Oregon beer for Josh
and an Oregon Gris for me, and sit at a table in the hot sun and enjoy each
other's company as we talk to each other.
Back at Josh's parents' house, Josh's
dad, Leroy (Josh calls him Leroy rather than dad) is pouring beer he's home
brewing into bottles and Ezra is fastening the cap to the bottle with a handle
lever contraption. It's grandson
grandpa bonding time through beer making Oregon style. Leroy is the Spoden I know the least
well. From what I can tell, he's a
good man. Raised a good group of
keeps, kept a wife of four decades, bikes to work every day, eats primarily
organic, brews his own beer,
enjoys spending time with his family, and in the later part of his life, his
sixties, moved from Minnesota to Oregon to be closer to his children and
grandchildren and reconnect and connect with them in ways he couldn't have if
he were still living in Minnesota.
I admire that. I admire
anyone who can make a big change like that in life. It's not easy.
Change isn't always easy, even when we want it. To relocate half way across the country
can be difficult. To uproot
yourself and to plant yourself in new ground makes you wonder if your roots
will take and you will grow healthy and strong and produce the bounty of your
growth. From what his children
have told me, Leroy has rooted himself and grown into a strong organic
man. May all of us who wish to
uproot ourselves and grow somewhere else have the same successful growth.
Ezra eats his pad Thai and I take over
as beer brewing assistant, pulling the handle of the bottle attaching
contraption. I'm sure it has an
official name, shorter than my clunky description, which would never win for
best marketing name.
Oh, and Josh is shirtless. Apparently, hot and slightly sweaty
from our walk to the Farmer's Market, he's taken off off his shirt and is
walking around the apartment shirtless.
Let's just say this: a six pack, no body fat, solid pecs, and a face
like Ryan Gosling's. I've got a
bit of a man crush on Josh, as do most men, gay or straight.
Josh's shirt back on, we head to a
birthday party of one of Ezra's classmates. Josh tells me that a lot of the kids from Ezra's class will
be there and there parents and that he thinks I will like his friends. In fact, he wants me to meet them. I like that about friends who have
friends and they're proud of their friends and want to introduce me to them and
think I would fit in with those friends.
This sort of social situation is completely comfortable to me where I
know virtually no one but am certain that because they are friends of a friend
that I will find them intriguing or interesting and have easy and enjoyable
conversation with them. Sure
enough, I do. We talk about a wide
gamut of topics from organics to education to spirituality to marijuana. This is Eugene, after all. Nathan and Finn are also at the party. It's the first time I've gotten to talk
to Nathan since arriving at the Venetta house. We stand at the sink in the kitchen, he drinking a beer, I
drinking a gris, and discuss organic agriculture in Oregon.
After the party, we drive back
home. Yesterday, Jenny grilled a
chicken and so we have left over chicken which we heat up on the grill. There's kale and potatoes to go along
with it. Nathan puts Finn to
bed. Stacy and Jenny come home,
and tired, head to their beds for beauty sleep they really don't need. Josh and I sit outside. He lights a fire in the large urn they
have. I ask him he'd like to play
guitar but he says he doesn't know how to play. We talk about his brother Waylon's creativity with guitar
playing, lyric writing, and singing.
Josh mentions that Nathan plays the guitar and I should ask him to
play. So I do. Josh calls it a night and Nathan brings
out his guitar and “some really good stuff from Oregon” and I get a one man
show with a fire in front of me, millions of stars above me, crickets filling
the stadium with applause, and a happy high. The song he sings is Wagon Wheels, which he recently sang at
his sister's wedding, and reprises tonight. It's tender and vulnerable, hopeful and pleading, pleasing
and promising. Song over, Nathan
puts his guitar in its case and we talk for a bit. Nathan doesn't wear his heart on his sleeve, and yet,
tonight, he opens up to me, lets out some feelings, and that's always a good
thing. Maybe that's the benefit of
a friend you don't see on a regular basis and won't see on a regular basis: you
feel safe and free to share with them things you might tell none of your other
friends who are in your life on a more regular basis. We all need friends like that. The friends who we trust so much even if we haven't seen
them in a long time that we know we can take out items we've been keeping
inside our suitcase of thoughts and emotions for far too long. Those items get heavy to carry and pull
behind us. We all need to lighten
our load and continue to lighten your load.
Soft and soothing thoughts float
through my mind as I spend time in my room after Nathan and I say and hug
goodnight. I write in my journal
stating basically how happy I am and what I'm happy for. I write a short poem for each of the
people in the house—Nathan, Jenny, Ezra, Josh, Stacy, and Finn. I meditate for a bit, and then, I'm tired, and sweet
sleep seduces me into his silent embrace.
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