It is what it is

Ahhh, rain in the canyon. It’s one of the most peaceful experiences I can imagine—especially since I made my peace with mudslides. I’ve come to learn that mudslides are my friend. Mudslides close the boulevard for months at a time, and they allow the canyon to become an isolated little village, cut off from the rest of the world. Hence, all the through-traffic ceases and the sounds of revving, racing Lamborghini’s and crotch rockets are replaced by the sounds of crickets and frogs. I’ll take it. Of course, it’s not great for the small businesses here if that lasts too long, so I always hope they clear it before too many months pass. 

I love living somewhere where nature can still flex in a way that affects a population of 20 million people. That’s pretty magnificent. And I don’t just mean a rainy day. Although, sidenote: Collin is becoming more Californian than I expected. He thanked me for running errands in the “crazy weather” today. And I was like…”ummm, it’s just raining.” But I think we all know that here a little rain can also become an atmospheric river. And that a dry, windy day can become a raging fire. So, I get it.  

Nature has tried to tell us in no uncertain terms that she (I’m not sure nature has a gender, but I guess because she’s often referred to as “Mother Nature” we’ll go with ‘she’”) is at her breaking point in terms of population capacity here. Our water is sourced largely from Northern California, so it’s not sustainable to live here in that regard. Our food comes from not too far away (much of it is grown in the central valley not too far away), but compared to local farms in Vermont, it’s not nearly as hyper local of a food culture.

Some of these environmental concerns were what caused me to want to move back to Vermont. But, try as I did, Mother Nature herself seemed to want me to stay. She sent two mudslides and a raging, massive wildfire both years that I tried to sell my house. Whether you want to spiritualize that or just see it for what it is: nature is the reason I couldn’t move. But a whole lot of other people did move out of Topanga. Which makes me think that she’s shaking out the people who aren’t willing to live in awe of her intense, numinous qualities. 

I find this comforting. And so, as I’ve been moving through my grief about leaving our beloved land in Vermont, I’ve been able to lean into this sense that I belong here. Per nature’s will. For now, at least. We found out (through the super sleuthing of one of my dear friends I made while living in Vermont) that the people who bought our former homestead/land never plan on selling it. Or at least, they do not plan to sell in any foreseeable timeline. That was a real heartbreaker to find out. I am a delusional optimist (I’ve covered that in other posts), so I was oddly convinced for a while that they’d move in a few years and that we’d buy it back. Apparently, my imaginal plan for them is not manifesting. 

So, I’ve had to embrace that. We’ve all felt that boundary that life serves us sometimes, right? We get handed that rigid set of parameters for “what is” regardless of what we want. Good god, it’s so frustrating when you’re someone with an internal locus of control like I am. I feel like Life had to put me in a padded, locked room to handle the disappointment. I’ve been raging against the reality that we sold our land for a few years now. I’m getting tired of punching the padded walls. I think I’m ready accept it now. 

Acceptance is a weird thing. Acceptance is that calm resolve that’s past where feelings dwell. Usually, I have had to feel all the feelings first, though. I cry, I rage, and I exhaust myself out of feelings. By the time, I reach acceptance, it’s not so much a feeling as it is stance. It’s a posture of the heart and the mind. 

Now that I’ve accepted that I’m not moving back to our land, I am more open to seeing and feeling my actual life as it’s happening. I’m thinking about planting our native plants before the rain instead of looking on Zillow for new homes. I’ve deleted Zillow from my phone, actually. Big step for me. Instead of shopping for different lives in different places, I’m helping Juniper pursue her areas of interest this year: acting, singing, surfing, guitar (well, that one is on Collin, but I do nag them to practice) and language learning (that creepy, passive-aggressive Duolingo Owl does all the nagging for that). And instead of trying to convince Senya that they will be fine changing lives mid-highschool, I’m witnessing their flourishing as their roots go deeper and deeper into their school community and friend groups. Without the fear of imminent change, they’ve been able to really connect and thrive here.

With both of my kids also becoming more independent, that’s left me a lot of time to explore my own path. At times, I’ve had to be put back in the padded room (metaphorically, guys. Nothing alarming is happening here). Raging, non-acceptance for my kids’ growing up, existential crises that the best is over and it’s all downhill from here, etc etc. After a while, I tired myself out again, and I’ve accepted the fact that my kids are indeed growing up, and it is what it is. Such a trite statement that people use: “it is what it is.” But that little hackneyed expression is quite profound. It’s a declaration of acceptance. It’s the acquiescence of the soul and mind to reality. It’s letting go of illusion and being present with what is. It is what it is. 

As I’ve embraced reality and been present with what is, I’ve also had my eyes opened and my heart more available to experience all that I love that is special here.

I love that the woods here are comprised of old growth trees; these oaks have been alive for hundreds of years. And they have rights. No one is allowed to cut them down—even when they’re young. I love living somewhere where trees are our elders and they have rights. I love that there are so many native plants and chaparral that grows all throughout the mountains. I love that so much of the land is undeveloped and will remain so.

Topanga is like an oasis in the urban jungle. But the land is wild. No one can or will tame her. And I love that. I respect this land. I bow to it. It is not mine, and there’s a history of colonization that is hard to hold. This land belonged to the Tongva and the Chumash for thousands of years. By rights, I shouldn’t be here. But like so many of my fellow Americans, this continent is the only home I’ve ever known. I came into this story at a point so far down the line, that the best I can do is acknowledge the past by learning about it from an Indigenous perspective and live with reverence and respect going forward. So, I walk with humility, with gratitude, and with a resolve to care for and cherish this land. With reciprocity, as Robin Wall Kimmerer explains in her books. With love.

No more alternate life shopping for me. Instead, I’ve been composting again. I’ve been diving deeper into my herbalism. My new, Vermont-based program (it’s a hybrid program with weekly classes that are live-online and week-long intensives in Vermont once a year) starts officially in February, but I’ve been doing the self-guided pre-requisite coursework. There are two classes I’m completing on my own before February: Relational Culture and Justice in Herbalism. They’re both super academic and sociological. The Vermonters are definitely bringing the serious side of herbalism, and I love it. My Californian program is much more relational and spiritual. I love the balance of both, actually. One inspires me to dismantle the patriarchy and deconstruct my white privilege and the other has me exploring herbal aphrodisiacs and making Jungian-inspired dream cordials. They’re both great. 

I’ve also had to confront the underlying causes that make me want to move. I’m still untangling them, and I’m sure I’ll write a coherent post about it someday. But for now, rather than architecting a new life, I’m recognizing the impulse to move when it arises, and I’m getting curious about why that’s my go-to. 

Anyway, that’s my latest update, and these are my current reflections. I took the rainy day today to eat gluten (gasp! That’s almost illegal here), run some errands (despite the sky falling), and rest and recover. I have a touch of bursitis which I keep thinking is actually called burstitis (which sounds like the diagnosis for an injured Care Bear. So I might keep calling it that). But it’s far less exciting than my made up name for it. It’s like a bit of inflammation from overuse in my hip. I love running, and historically I’ve had a hard time resting. But…it is what it is. And sometimes being present with what is looks like eating a homemade bagel and drinking a cup of hot chocolate while I read my herbalism journal articles on my sofa by the crackling fire. Right here. In this little cabiny house by the newly flooded creek. In this quirky town I love. That’s nestled in these wild mountains I revere. 

In other words, at home.