Heartbreak and Body Aches

A few years ago, in the magical era of nightly read-alouds, when Senya was merely 9 and Juniper was but 6, Collin was reading a book he had acquired at the annual community book sale in Pawlet, Vermont. The book, written in 1980 and entitled, The Fledgling, was a story about a girl who had befriended the Goose Prince. The Goose Prince could talk with the girl, and he’d come to her window each night to take her flying. 

The story was weird, as obscure book sale finds sometimes tend to be, but it had its own strange charm especially because our tender-hearted kids loved all things related to animals at that time. 

The read aloud was within pages from the book’s end when seemingly out of nowhere a hunter shot and killed the Goose Prince to whom we had all become quite emotionally attached. 

Senya and Juniper were disturbed and upset by this horrific plot twist. Let’s just say the bedtime ritual took quite a while that night before they could settle down and sleep. 

After they were finally sleeping, I was like, “Collin, why didn’t you change the ending?!?” To which he responded that he really didn’t think the author was going to kill off the goose right at the end. “I just really didn’t see it coming” he said. “And then, after the goose was shot, I kept thinking he’d somehow be okay after all. And then the book ended and he was just dead!”

Well, friends, in some ways this is how I’m feeling at this moment as I bring you the update: we are not moving to the farm in Vermont. At least not this year, we’re not, and maybe never. 

I, as the partial author of this story, wanted to write a different ending. I really wanted to be arriving at the farm by now, taking in the beauty of the meadows full of purple, wild bergamot resonant with the choruses of birdsong. I envisioned everything from Christmas morning to my daily cup of coffee in the gorgeous timber frame farmhouse. And I was so excited to give Senya and Juniper that life of a progressive private school education, weekend winter skiing, expanding the animal friends roster in our family again, and the depth of life that comes when you live collaboratively with nature in that intimate of a setting. 

But, despite my best efforts, our house here in Topanga did not sell. We’ve consulted several experts in the field of real estate and we have been informed time and again that it’s just a really difficult moment to sell a house right now. With interest rates being as high as they are and the fact that summer is a hard time to sell in Topanga anyway, the combo just created more obstacles than we could overcome before the fall. And while we thought of leaving anyway (by means of leaving this house on the market for sale or renting it out from afar) we didn’t feel peace of mind about leaving loose ends here (financially, that felt extremely risky). 

I’m not sure how to hold this heartbreak, honestly. As someone who loves shaping the narrative and engaging with all the plot twists and story lines life presents, I’m used to weaving any and all of the threads into a tapestry of meaning. Yet, this one, like the death of the Goose Prince long ago, is coming as a bit of an unwanted shock. The foreshadowing irony of the fact that the farm in Vermont we had hoped to buy is named Wayward Goose is not lost on me. 

I’m having trouble processing my feelings about the realization that our house isn’t selling in time to move there for this upcoming year. In fact, at first I refused to let myself feel sad about it, so for the first half of this week (when I saw the impending end of the contract date on the farm and it became real to me that we hadn’t sold the house in time to really make this plan happen), I instead went into manically positive rebound mode. Much like how when Juniper would fall when she was 2 years old, she’d get back up and after assessing the damage to her body and she’d say, “It doesn’t care.” That was her way of expressing that she wasn’t going to let getting hurt slow her down, upset her, or get in the way of her happiness. 

So, essentially, when I realized we weren’t going to pull this off by fall, my initial reaction was to say, “It doesn’t care” and move on with leaning into all the positive things about our life here. 

The upside of that reaction is that I have since planned a stellar and top quality forthcoming year for the kids in terms of homeschooling courses and extra curricular activities. The downside of that reaction is that my body betrayed me. When I don’t deal with my intense negative feelings (particularly sadness cause I hate that one), my body takes the hit. By Wednesday night, I was semi-paralyzed. This has only happened to me a handful of times in life, but on the occasion where I haven’t let myself feel my feelings, my neck and back seize up and I can’t turn my neck or move my body without excruciating pain. It’s the strangest thing. I was out in Santa Monica having dropped Senya off with a friend and trying to have a date with Juni when it started; mid-walk to the ice cream shop, I coughed and then yelped in pain. Walking became a painfully robotic exercise of the will. It took all my mental power to muscle through the pain to drive us all home. As it so happens, I also had to get three cavities drilled later that day. So by the end of the day, I fell into bed with my swollen, numb face and my near-paralyzed back and neck, and I just willed myself to go unconscious for a bit. 

At some point in the day, Chappell Roan’s song, California, came on during the car ride with Senya and Juniper and from behind my sunglasses, tears were streaming down my face against my will. She wrote that song after she had left her small hometown in rural Missouri and found herself amidst the somewhat glamorous and somewhat overwhelmingly gritty scene that is Los Angeles. It’s relatable for anyone who has come here hoping to embrace all the magic that Los Angeles has to offer but then goes into a spiral when they’ve realized all they’ve given up and all that doesn’t exist here (the four, distinct seasons elsewhere in the US, simplicity, quiet, grandmothers who bake cookies). 

Over the past few days, I’ve worked on integrating my sadness and allowing myself to feel it. As I have done so, my body has started to recover as well. This “being sad” business really doesn’t come naturally to me. I hate feeling sad. It’s like…such a bummer. It’s like getting an injury of the soul, and then getting taken out of the game of life. And while I hate letting it recover, if I don’t, I might risk more injury. So, I’m trying to be patient with my sadness, but it’s super boring and lame-o. I just want to be happy and move on. I guess I see where Juniper gets it 🙂 I don’t really have the choice, though, as my heart keeps feeling like something died. And it did, in a way. 

Once I get through the worst of this grief, I am hoping to embrace all we do have to enjoy here this year in Los Angeles. Like 75 miles of gorgeous coastline ranging from wide, sandy beaches in Long Beach to majestic, rocky cliffs in Malibu. Or all the cultural markers of a fantastically diverse city—including a plethora of cuisines, a variety of distinct neighborhoods to explore, and many unique boutiques and quirky artisan-run shops. I really do suck at being sad, huh? 

But truly, Topanga is a wonderful place to call home, after all. As much as I do want to honor my sadness and allow myself to properly grieve, there’s no room for self-pity. My daily drive through our winding canyon road involves chaparral adorned cliffs dotted with sprawling, live oaks that distinctively comprise the center of this ecosystem. After 8 minutes of that glorious drive, I encounter the Pacific Ocean, shining and outstretched as far as I can see. It reminds me that anything is truly possible and that the world is all right there at my beckoning should I be daring enough to embark on the journey in front of me. And, I guess for now, my journey involves staying here this time around. It’s an inward journey. It’s an epic journey of the mind and the heart. That’s just as exciting (to be read with sarcasm and an eye roll). I really wanted a donkey.

So while this is a very different journey from the one I had charted for this next year, and I am trying to make space for my grief, I am also quite positive that everything’s going to be okay.

It seems to be working out all right for Chappell Roan, and had she packed it in and headed back to Missouri soon after she felt disoriented and sad, she never would have realized her true potential as an artist. 

Sometimes the course that life charts is different from the one we’d choose, but often it’s also those specific hardships, disappointments, or challenges that compel us to grow, evolve, and metamorphose into the full realization of our selves. 

I guess we’ll see what lies ahead.