The Renovation

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