The Three Bears

For those who have never lived on their own, might be afraid, anxious about silence, worried about fixing things, the idea of cooking for one, being responsible for paying one’s bills—-don’t be. You can do it. You can handle it. I know because not that long ago I used to be fearful, but now realize that the more I step out of my comfort zone, the stronger I get. 

I’ve discovered in the last 2.8 years since being retired from my important and all-consuming work as an 8^th grade English Language Arts teacher, that being alone isn’t lonely. It’s exuberant. I can dance, read, write, create art, watch binge shows whenever I feel like it with no one to answer to or debate. I have no one but myself to clean up after. I can crack myself up, and do—often. 

Mind you, I’m not a hermit. I chat with neighbors, my friends via phone and Facetime. I communicate, constantly, checking in with family and occasionally, the news of the day. But then there’s now. I have classical music playing, a fake candle gyrating next to a glass of Paso Robles zinfandel. Earlier, I went on a silent walk around the hilly neighborhood and acknowledged that I was still full from a late yogurt, apple and walnut lunch and would probably skip dinner. (I didn’t. Crackers, cheese and smoked salmon with a glass of wine did the trick.) When I got back from my spin around my new turf, I decided to spend a bit of time writing and reflecting and sharing my first impressions of life as a solo woman living in a studio in her favorite place on Earth.

My little castle is framed beneath my landlord’s in-need-of-new-paint ocean-view home. The backyard is spacious, wild and overgrown with a recently-dug hole, home of a future koi pond. Penny’s grand living room has been transformed into an artist’s studio with in-progress paintings filling the entirety of the main living space. Her sweet, 85-year-old mother, Kay, spends most of the time downstairs working on puzzles and watching her favorite shows. The owners’ affectionate rescue dogs spend the day chasing away curious deer and turkeys. At night, owls glide from tree to tree looking for tasty treats.

In my shrunken space, I live minimally, having grabbed a few treasures from the storage unit; some poetry books, framed pictures, two Le Creuset pans, my mom’s missing mince tart pans, a cherished golden honey pot, a 1960s Blue Chip Stamp butter yellow blender, Auntie Marjorie’s blue-eyed cat cookie jar, my American-made thick coffee shop mugs, a favorite French tablecloth, the colander my son won at a Mrs. Gooch’s raffle, a ceramic chipped tea pot sculpted by Katie and a painting Jenny gifted to me depicting a joyful purple angel dancing in a grassland of fireworks. These magical treasures seem at home in my funky tiny home, bringing me light and a connection to a life I packed up and shoved into a storage unit.

After traveling and living in a van for much of the last two years, I realize I don’t need too many things to make me happy. But I have to admit, it’s a joy to be reunited with my old friends that, to anyone else, belong in The Salvation Army’s donation bin. There’s something about sipping coffee from one of the mugs I had at my beloved old house or tossing a blanket over the couch that once graced my rocker at home that brings me delight. 

Home. 

I realize I can be at home almost anywhere, which is a gigantic shift and discovery for this 68-year-old grandma writer. Things are temporary.

As am I. 

I do my best to embrace and enhance the places I reside, whether it’s for an afternoon or the entirety of the six-month lease I signed to be here. While I’m paused, I intend to enjoy every single literary and creative minute.

I wake up early, dance, stretch, French press my coffee, write, then go for a walk before returning to write some more. It’s the scenario I imagined since my 20s when I foolishly thought life would only be complete if I was married. Silly, 1950s sitcom me. Turns out, a lot of us mature women are realizing we aren’t characters from Disney movies dependent upon Prince Charming. We can be happy and strong sans a marital partner because what we really crave is interaction—-connection—-with interesting souls who share a mutual sense of compassion, joy and a zest for life. 

Every day I fall in love, with the chorus of trees welcoming the start of a new day or the property’s rescue pup, Joy, who knocks on my door for a greeting, or a cold cup of coffee I can re-heat with this marvelous, always ready, new, non generator-powered invention—the microwave. Honestly, as a van lifer, such simple conveniences make me giddy.

Things don’t have to be perfect; this tiny studio isn’t nor was my 100-year-old Angel Cove Cottage. Like the imperfect dwellings I’m attracted to, I too have many, many flaws, but I’m exactly who—-and where—-I’m supposed to be. Mom tried to tell me this, “In time,” she often said, her chapped, thumbless hand gently tapping my knee, “you’ll understand.” Her slight, welcome touch was how my reserved mother communicated love. I just didn’t know it at the time.

 Mom would like it here. If she was still alive, she and I would sit on the patio with a Cadbury biscuit and a cup of Yorkshire tea and wonder why it took so long to be close. Why did it take death for us to appreciate the other? Mom would be proud of me for not giving up, for pursing a life I was afraid of pursing, the one she might have chosen had it been a different time. 

On the patio, I have three faded turquoise chairs set up conversationally around my portable fire pit, one for Papa Bear, Mama Bear and Baby Bear. Think it strange? That’s OK. I want all the ghosts to know they are welcome here.