Last year at this time, we had a knock at the door from our property manager letting us know that after nine years of renting our lovely little treehouse-like home in El Granada, CA, we had 60 days to vacate. Yes, vacate during COVID. Yes, vacate when Michael was still recovering from his rectal cancer surgery. Yes. we had cats, a dog, a fish, and stuff! We had planned a women’s retreat for me for my 50th birthday and a trip to Costa Rica for all of us in March and April that had already been postponed once because of COVID. We had been lining up a potential rental and cajoling friends into joining us. Would we have to cancel the trip again that I had already paid for?
We took a cursory look at rents in our county on craigslist. Single-family homes were double our rent as were two duplexes with storage and that allowed pets. Because of our kids need to vocalize and move their bodies, we can’t do apartments. Out of county wasn’t much better and meant changing EVERYTHING for our kids anyway. If you have exceptional (aka special needs kids) and deal with SSI, Med-i-cal, IEPs, and regional centers, and the meltdowns that lay ahead (mine not theirs) you know what I mean. Like many of my colleagues and friends who don’t have parent help or legacy house equity, we were officially priced out of the Bay Area
.
“Email the owner of that place in Cabuya, Costa Rica” I suggested to Michael. The owner, who ended up living in the bay area wanted to rent, sell, and talk. Costa Rica, and Cabuya, in particular had been on our hearts and in our minds since I was asked to come here for a Study Abroad in 2017. We came here for 10 days in 2018 and fell in love. We thought maybe we’d move in 5+ years. Maybe retirement. If you came for a visit or dinner at our place, you likely were subjected to videos of Costa Rica coastline or jungles.
After scanning prices again our deliberations lasted literally thirty seconds: “Do you want to move to Costa Rica or move to the Central Valley and try to figure out a commute?” I asked Michael. He looked at me hard for a second and replied, “There’s no question for me. Let’s do it.” And in two months we were on a plane with two kids, two pets, two carry-ons, two ipads and my laptop. Our stuff, which we whittled down to mostly surfboards, bikes, skateboards, music equipment, tools, some pictures, kitchen supplies and three boxes of books, arrived a few months later in a shipping container.
The path hasn’t been smooth, straight or obvious. Yet, neither Michael nor I are the type of people who let outside circumstances dictate our core happiness or sense of peace. Gratitude has blown itself through us. We wake up every day to weather that has been healing to Michael (no more eczema) and that we adore. We are surrounded by nature: countless butterflies flit around. Yes we eat papaya, piña, or watermelon daily, AND we have to sweep out tiny gecko poop–daily. We chose the perfect puebla for us: it’s rural, quiet, centered on local community and a handful of friends. We don’t own a car, so we ride bikes and take cabs if we need to go somewhere. Do we have bug bites? A bodega with a leaky roof? Does Michael shake his head at Costa Rican plumbing and construction practices? Do iguanas regularly come into the eves of the house and taunt Monica? YES! So like anything else, it is life. But the shift away from the capitalistic grind, distraction, and brainwashing that we need so much because there are aisles and aisles of it to be consumed is gone. Since we arrived March 1st, we have been able to exhale and live consciously.
For 2022, I’m excited to do the work I feel called here to do. I’m deep into a writing project as I participate with the Gateless Writing Academy and the brilliant Suzanne Kingsbury that will last until July. And I’m hosting my online course for mamas of exceptional kids. I’m getting certified to teach meditation, and much more. With me are a sisterhood of friends I adore and who buoy me. And, I’m still supporting myself with daily practices but am not sacrosanct about anything. I have two shapeshifting kiddos and Monica 😜., so I can’t be too serious. As you reflect on this wild and likely divinely difficult year, I invite you to find the gratitude and path that lights you up.
Big Love for you all in 2022 💜
Whenever I hear the word “derailed” in my mind’s eye I see the final scene of Bridge on the River Kwai, a film I’ve seen dozens of times, the first likely before I was ten. And so it was we were deep in this word “derailed” this last month when we suddenly learned that we were not going to be able to buy the house we are living in, one that we’ve been so drawn to since even before we received our 60-day notice in El Granada, last December. After all the emails with the attorney, the bank, the escrow company, and then a sudden, “No.” The news had that film quality; we’d worked very hard to build something, make this home happen, and then the “What have I done?” moment as the plan felt like it was destroyed.
Timing. We give it many names: Destiny, Fate, Kismet, the will of God. The precise, exquisite influence of timing moves people into new positions as surely as a spring flood rearranges the landscape. It is as unavoidable as life. ~ Helen Van Slyke
Luckily, we aren’t at war, prisoners of war, and nothing is blowing up. In fact, our lives are seemingly safer than many of our friends who are facing more Delta variant virus outbreaks in their US communities. Nevertheless, Michael and I have been trudging in this “why is this happening” muck while trying to keep everything upbeat and normal for the kiddos. So much is going well, but like the completion of the bridge, this change was not in our trajectory. Or at least it seemed that way.
A few days before we learned about not being able to buy the house, the feral mama cat who we’d been feeding started having her kittens on our roof. We learned from friends that this was her third pregnancy, and with the other two, the father cat promptly arrived and killed the kittens right after their birth. 😳 This time, though, we had been feeding her, and she was stronger.
We kept our distance, but noticed with my zoom lens camera that she had three. After some time, the kittens were getting dangerously close to the edge of the roof, so we moved them to a box and put them where the mama could get them. After a lot of drama, including having to cut the placenta off of one of the kitten’s legs, the mama cat only took two kittens with her. We couldn’t let the one left behind, the smallest, die. So, Michael has taken on the role of Madregata, feeding the kitten special formula from the vet every couple of hours around the clock for the last 21 days. We think (fingers-crossed) that Izzy (Lazlo named it) will survive. She/he? is three weeks old today.
But, whew, the lack of sleep, the news about the house, and my summer work, prep for fall, and class grading has felt like a lot the last few weeks. We’ve had moments or days that felt sort of nihilistic. “Maybe this is all just random junk that happens.” I didn’t fully forget the magic or the unmistakable serendipities that lined up to bring us here. And I’ve been sticking with my meditation & yoga practices. Yet, we were feeling undeniably stuck and confused.
Then we started telling a few local Tico friends and expats, and it was amazing to us how quickly they all leapt at the opportunity to help us. Immediate generosity and concern. It was deeply reassuring. Nothing is solid yet, but within a few days a house lined up. It looks like we have a new place to rent that is full of character, close by, similar to this place, and will save us a lot as far as rent. And during this process, we’ve been reminded of other opportunities and options–maybe even buying land of our own to build the exact house we want. So our singular vision has been widened. We are feeling open. Tired, but open. Instead of derailed, it feels more like we’ve been given new glasses and our vision is still adjusting. And slowly, I’m feeling my attachment to this house shift into excitement about what is going to unfold later this fall.
My hometown of Redding, California has four seasons, but is known, quite notoriously, for its summer. For at least 90 days of the year it is not unusual for it to be well over 100 degrees. Everyone from there can recall certain summers where it hit 119 or 120.
Despite the heat, as a kid I mostly went barefoot during the summer. If I were stuck in a parking lot with searing asphalt between the front of Dude’s and a car or nearby sidewalk, I would jump from one white strip to the other of the parking lines to keep my feet from burning. Or other times I would just run as fast as I could and be mad at myself for forgetting to ride my bike or grab my tennis shoes.
I don’t remember anyone ever saying to me “Kimberly, make sure you wear shoes because it’s going to be hot outside.” By the time I was six or seven, they assumed I knew how to take care of those kinds of decisions for myself. Yes, the trope was true for me that I would be outside after breakfast and back for dinner. Many would say it was just a different time to be a parent and a kid.
The most important thing I was taught was never to complain. And while I still secretly see quiet tolerance for discomfort as a virtue, I realize that this paradigm or lens had for a long time held me back.
Parenting has changed dramatically from when I was a child, —even in the thirteen years between my kids. And many Gen-Xers, like myself, went into fight or flight to cope. No wonder so many people my age and younger are putting in the work to get out of alcoholism, over eating, drug addiction, chronic illness, anxiety, and emotionally vacant or abusive relationships.
We are much more aware not just about things like spanking kids (in public no less) is damaging and ineffective, but also on the scientific level how our bodies have coped with our own patchwork upbringings—no matter the intention or ostensible stability of your parents. Have you read Nicole LaPera’s book How to Do the Work, or at least followed her on Instagram (@the_holistic_psychologist) It’s like lasik surgery for the soul, body and mind. Do it!
Dr. Nicole LePera’s How to Do the Work
As a kid I was told religion would cure all of these types of things, so I tried really hard to be the good Christian girl and woman. While pastors would espouse God’s love, I was taught w equal fervor that everything bad that happened was a product of not praying or reading my Bible enough. Therefore, I lived under a cloud of self-loathing and doubt.
Eventually, I realized that many people in and outside of the church have the same issues. In churches I saw emotional abuse, infidelity, racism, stealing, sexual assault, addiction— you name it, it’s there. Regardless of religion, how we are raised makes an imprint on us that we either repeat, cope with, or learn to heal from and move forward.
My sister recently said to me that I have so much courage for moving my family to Costa Rica. I thought a lot about her comment because I don’t feel particularly courageous. But I was also trained that receiving compliments was a flaw—akin to boasting or vanity. Certainly, I didn’t feel a fear that I needed to overcome when we received our 60-day notice. Was it a lot to process? Of course. But what I did feel was clarity that we were supposed to come here and that the path to do so was lighting up in front of me so clearly so that I couldn’t look away.
A big part of my own growth and healing has been to observe the “heat” in a situation and choose my response without blaming anyone, ignoring my feelings, guilting myself or needing to prove my worth.
How has your upbringing/imprinting shaped how you respond to difficulty?
When I was eight years old, my mom married a man named Glen, who I would later understand was put into my life to illustrate everything I didn’t want in a father, partner, or friend. With distance and therapy, I’m at peace with his role in my life. Actually, I think we all have people come into our lives who function in this way; clear contrast can be a gift of sorts. One of my most vivid memories of him was when he offered to build me a treehouse in the backyard. It was soon after he’d moved in, so I was happy for his interest in providing something fun for me. I loved climbing trees of all sizes and types, having a bird’s eye view of my Redding neighborhood and my dog Partner below. A few days later, Glen went to work cutting a two by four and attaching it into the yoke of the mimosa tree. I was so thrilled with this first step, and I climbed up to the two by four to perch as soon as he gave me the green light.
Of course, the treehouse never progressed beyond that first day, first board. He made all kinds of excuses: not the right time of year, not enough money for wood, I misbehaved so was not deserving, and so on. While his real reason could have been legitimate, he clearly didn’t have the skills or interest to reassure or communicate with me. He would even tease my desire and disappointment. I sat with the feeling of that non-treehouse for a very long time–and then eventually put it out of my mind altogether.
Yesterday, when I arrived at our new place in Costa Rica, I wasn’t surprised by the treehouse, as I knew it was a feature on the property that the kids would enjoy. Yet, when I walked the path to it, something clicked. The slate rocks leading to the tree felt exactly like the ones leading to my childhood home in Redding. And then I looked up and next to the treehouse is a giant mimosa tree. Suddenly, the memory of that single two by four came flooding in. In that moment, I knew that the universe was aligning to remind me yet again that all of these changes have meaning. That I’m fulfilling my own dreams, meeting my own needs, even the ones that were resting just below the surface.
In three days we make our move from California to Cabuya, Costa Rica. A new country, climate, and culture. Even the critters will be different–Can you say scorpions? As the move grows near, I’ve been observing my sons’ excitement and stress as they shift into the unknown. I wonder how they are going to cope with leaving their home of nine years. This of course, makes me think about my childhood home and how it shaped me.
It’s been about 30 years since I left that house on 2957 Yana Avenue, where I lived from age four to nineteen. Through memory and photographs I can recall and conjure details from the house: the lime green kitchen where I carved my initial K backwards into the cabinet; the two vinyl red barstools held together with duct tape that used to stick to the back of my legs or snag my nylons; the persistent dog and cat odors of the shag carpets; and the narrow hallway area under the swamp cooler, offering the only respite in the 100+ degree heat.
In my thirties, long after I had moved from that 1955-era ranch style home, I read Gaston Bachelard’s seminal work Poetics of Space where he illuminates the value of lived space whether that is a shell, a closet, or the House of Usher. In the book, he asks readers to imagine the doorknob of the house they grew up in. And sure enough, when I did, that jangly, scuffed up brass knob reappeared in my right hand. Bachelard’s point was not just the amusing trickery of the brain, but his philosophy that the home, no matter its physical characteristics, is like a secondary womb, where our unconscious is imprinted, a sort of bas-relief. It also houses our internal landscapes. Try it. If you dip into the images of your first shelter, you will likely have these visceral responses and perhaps, untapped memories.
“It is better to live in a state of impermanence than in one of finality.”
Gaston Bachelard
Our house that we are leaving in El Granada, CA is a small, two-bedroom, treehouse, on stilts–no yard but a eucalyptus forest and ocean that are visible from most of the rooms. Backed up to the top of a winding hill that borders the open space reserves, it has felt like an oasis of isolation and nature. And woo boy, what a gift during COVID to have these hiking trails literally at our doorstep. This last year many friends who live in suburbs came for socially distanced visits, reveling in the proximity to nature. But the one thing we are looking forward to is less isolation. Here, we can’t walk to the beach though we can see it–and we can’t ride a bike as we are at the top of an aggressively steep hill. Sometimes we even sit above the coastal cloud layer. This house has made us into keen observers.
We aren’t sure what features of this house will adhere to Lazlo’s and Harrison’s memories. We hope it has been a positive shelter, but we can never know what kind of womb the house has been for them. Maybe, the balcony–the ability to throw and watch all kinds of items launch off into the hillside below is something that will stand out. Perhaps, the narrow garage turned into a music studio for Michael, where Lazlo learned GarageBand, watched his papa use ProTools, recorded himself singing a “Another One Bites the Dust” or “Let it Go,” and played with oversized electric guitars. Harrison has a keen memory and will likely recite if the house had a bathtub or shower and how many. Drawn to comparisons, he’ll likely find features in the new house that weren’t here like hammocks or the warm sea.
Though we have had moments of stress and difficulty in preparing to uproot (60-day notices force a hustle), it is uncanny how we have all separately been on the precipice of change. Harrison is close to aging out of Oakhill, his school in San Anselmo since he was 9 years old. And there are no day programs open right now that are appropriate for him. Lazlo’s expressive language has dramatically spiked along with his body; he’s in the 98 percentile in height and weight for a seven year old. He needs new physical challenges and is longing for more friends and social interactions. I’m finishing up my work coordinating the Umoja program that I helped start at Foothill College in 2016. And after a grueling year of cancer treatment and surgeries, Michael is ready for a change in his work and music life and welcomes having a surfable wave in walking distance. We are ready to take different action, dream different dreams.
“I should say: the house shelters day-dreaming, the house protects the dreamer, the house allows one to dream in peace.”
Gaston Bachelard
As we leave, I offer gratitude for this house, “730” as Lazlo calls it, for offering us a place to dream, heal, and move into the next phase of our lives.
When you rent a house or apartment in a place like the San Francisco Bay area and don’t have rent control protection, there’s an ever present tension. At any point your quality of life or your actual roof can be taken by a beast-like market that doesn’t seem to have any point of saturation.
My husband Michael was born in the SF Bay area, and I moved here almost thirty years ago. We had both been through divorces where we didn’t come out with house equity and where we went through years of underemployment that always put us out of reach for owning a home, moreso the last eight or nine years. Once I solidified a full-time tenure track position, Michael’s employer scaled back his work to the point it became smarter for him to stay home full time with our toddler Lazlo and older son Harrison, who requires full time care.
The monster tension grew to a fever pitch four years ago when our landlord (and it does feel like a feudal system) decided our home needed to be closer to the market rate and increased the rent by $450 a month with one month’s notice. We went from being ideal tenants who fixed everything ourselves and replaced our own washing machine so not to bother our landlords, to contacting them about everything and sending receipts for every item we purchased and deducted from the rent. We basically went into more debt and scarcity living for 9 months until I could get enough of a raise and side duties at work to cover the difference.
During COVID, we finally removed the financial Sisyphean burden. Without major gas bills or wear and tear on our car, without any entertainment to be had for the kids or us, and without any friends or family to visit–our financial gains increased, which meant our debt started to decrease. We were feeling good. I was doing a happy dance the first of every month watching the credit card and student loan debt dwindle.
Then on December 18 the doorbell rang.
I was grading a slew of final essays and Michael was cooking dinner and tending to the kids endless requests. I figured it was a neighbor or worn out candy sales kid trying to earn points for a Christmas school drive. Nope. It was our property manager, who in 8+ years has only been to the house three times.
Amidst all of Monica’s barking, I couldn’t hear much. I only could make out: “They have to sell. They wanted to give you a little more time… the holiday.” A few seconds later, Michael entered our room on a big exhale.
“So, looks like we are moving by the end of February. Merry Christmas to us.” He said incredulously, “Maybe we should just go to Costa Rica now instead of waiting for retirement.”
Through a mix of early trauma, mindfulness practices, and Virgo wiring, I’m inherently sedate on the precipice of major life change or loss. I nodded, exhaled, and went back to my students’ papers. Michael dove back into the kids’ evening routine. I noticed my breath and the only option that immediately felt like the right step was indeed, Costa Rica.
My rational brain took over and did some calculations regarding rents, first and last month’s/deposit. Like most adults in this situation, I did a search on CL entering the amount we could afford and kept it at two bedrooms for the four of us. The only hits were in the outskirts of Santa Rosa and West Sacramento, both of which would be out of commuting reach for my work. We even removed the pet option, even though our pets are a huge part of our lives. Nada.
Months before my 50th birthday, I had paid for a women’s retreat (yoga, surf, and writing) in Santa Teresa Costa Rica. With COVID it was postponed until April 2021. The flights to Costa Rica are surprisingly affordable. Michael and I had been looking at places in the area to rent for a week if he brought the boys to come down. Then I convinced a few girlfriends to come to the retreat with me and found a house to share and rent for the whole group to save money and spread the fun. The next morning, I woke, not to the terror or dread of having to move, but with a thought. We should just email on VRBO the owner of the house we were going to rent and tell him about our situation. All he could say is, no.
Not only did he respond, he sent us his address in the US…. actually the Bay Area so we could come by and meet he and his wife. What?
So, this unexpected loss, what most would consider a huge stressor, became a lit path on an adventure. At moments scary? Yes. At moments overwhelming? Yes. But we are moving forward with a 100% knowing this is meant for us and to be getting out from under that tension is my friends, the most peacefully alive place to be.
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