I dreamt last night that I had to leave an old house where I
used to live as it was falling down around me. Everything was moist, like the inside of a body, and I was
frantically and ineffectively trying to collect everything I thought was
important. Then I was walking up
the hill towards this house feeling terrible shame. My house had been destroyed and my mother was right, I would
never succeed at anything; I had failed, I was ruined. I stepped over piles of glass, windows
that had blown out from other structures.
When I got to my house, though, I was surprised to see that it had been
charmingly renovated. There were
flower boxes in the windows, the façade in front had been cleared of debris and
clutter, and the stairs had been moved from the front to the right side. The place looked ten times bigger, so
much more open, and I knew the inside would be clear as well.
In 1980, I met my husband in this house. Michael was literally the boy next
door; he lived in the flat above me in this funky old San Francisco Victorian
that had survived the earthquake in ’06.
He eventually moved in with me in the middle flat, and we lived there
until 2002, when we finally moved to Marin, letting go of paying less then $800
for a rent-controlled, three-bedroom flat. Our son was born there, on the sofabed, because he came early
and our bedroom was being painted at the time due to a last-minute nesting
urge. The hot water was so slow it
took an hour to fill the tub. The
floor had become an unintentional work of art having suffered hippies,
musicians, pets and children; but it somehow worked. People would ask me how I’d accomplished just that effect,
and I would explain that if you don’t bother something for a long period of
time, it will become beautiful.
So, no, not the place most mothers would love.
After Michael died, I made the mistake of going by that old
house as I drove through town on my way to sell a few of his less-loved
guitars. Seeing it, I sobbed until I made myself sick. We lived there together for over twenty
years, more than I’ve lived anywhere before or since. We began as singles, became a couple, and grew into a
family; no longer satellites of other dysfunctional systems, but the center of
our own lives. We built a place
where we were safe from the disapproval outside, like refugees. Mostly, we didn’t bother each other,
and let one another grow beautiful.
When Michael died he turned into a crow for a bit, and since
then I’ve felt that crows follow me wherever I go. Part of me suspects it’s nothing personal; crows are
everywhere. But I’m grateful for a
symbol so ubiquitous, and comfort is never far away. During a gray moment after the eclipse I heard a crow
outside, and I felt so loved. A moment later, I heard the crow call from
slightly further away and I got scared and said, “Don’t go!”
Suddenly all I could feel was the beauty – of that
dilapidated house, of the club we formed together that would have us as
members, of this small moment in time where I could let go of making the renovations
myself. I could even see the
beauty of Michael’s cancer, how it turned the structure of his limitations into
a mush from which he has emerged transformed. I felt Michael expanding beyond my comprehension, just as
our 18-year-old son is getting ready to leave home, and around me there are
nothing but open doors.
I said it again, I said, “Don’t go.”
Then I heard Michael’s voice, amused and tender, and he
said, “How could I?”
Love always transcends every form it takes, containing and
releasing with impeccable precision and skill. Love never leaves; it can’t. It will always be the only thing left standing. And maybe the best thing we can do for
one another is to make ourselves into shapes and hold each other while we calm
down enough to remember that we are free.
May it be so.
With love,
Mia
