City Kid Country Kid

I have always loved the city.  I sit out on my balcony now and watch the orange light from the sunset shine against the church, highlight the browns of the branches under the leaves on the trees that spread out across my bustling neighborhood.  I can hear families in other apartments with their own sliding glass doors open speaking in at least three different languages among them.  I can hear motorcycles starting up, dogs running in their backyards, cars going by on the busy street below us.

I love the city.

But when my parents moved to Humboldt county 20 years ago, I followed them about a year later, and I fell in love with open country, with the rural life.  I only stayed for a year; I missed the city too much to stay. But in that year, and in subsequent frequent visits back over the last two decades, I have explored the diversity of the wilderness, the beaches, the small town neighborhoods, the quaint cafes and salons, the annual parades down Central Avenue (Yes, it is really called Central Avenue.  At least it's not Main Street.), and the backyard barbecues that all seem so quintessentially "country."

I love the country.  I love it all.  For a short while.

I am always so happy to drive across the San Rafael Bridge that takes me back into the East Bay.

I am not a woman torn.  I know where I belong.  Maybe someday, when I'm ready to slow down, I'll settle onto a big piece of land with wide open spaces and sit on my porch in my retirement with coffee or wine (or whiskey) in my hand and watch the sunset, or the sunrise (don't judge me).

But for now, I'll stick to the city, thank you very much.

And I want that for my daughter, too.  I love that she doesn't bat an eye at bizarre looking characters that wander down Mission Boulevard as we head out for our walks.  Recently, a mother of one of Celaya's friends shuddered at the thought of taking her own daughter to the Hayward library.  "Ugh," she said.  "I just see all the homeless people out front and I just... can't.  I can't bring myself to go in."  I laughed (on the inside of course; I'm not that rude.), and imagined what she pictured the inside to look like, an opium den, perhaps?

It is true; there are many homeless people congregated around the library, but so what?  One of the things I love about living in the city is that you can't hide from the realities of life.  Celaya says hello to the people that say hello to her, she has given money to needy people who ask for it, and these encounters prompt conversations between us about need, about want, and about perspective.  I'm not telling her stories the truth of which she'll never experience.  Need is a part of her everyday life.  This is important to both my husband and me, that while Celaya will likely never need for anything in her own life, she will also never consider herself removed from, or above, the people who do.

We also frequent museums, the ballet, the symphony, and plays.  And she's only three.  There is something to be said for exposure to all kinds of people, all kinds of experiences, and all kinds of culture, that you can get from life in the city that you just don't have access to in the country.

At the same time, there is no experience on earth like direct contact with nature.  And the country is so much bettter at providing abundant nature than is the city.

Sure, you can go find parks, beaches, trails, and rivers, and we do.

This last week I started taking Celaya on what I call city nature walks.  We walk from our house along a very busy, very dirty part of Mission Boulevard to get to a park that leads up into the Hayward hills, up enchanted stone steps, into a wide expanse of field.  It is a pretty tough two mile walk, and it is both urban and natural.

This is what I want for my daughter.  I want her to love the urban life, and also take refuge in the natural.  

In Humboldt I don't have to find nature; it hits me in the face.  I am so grateful that my mother can continue to provide a sort of "home" for us.  I love that Celaya longs for grandma's backyard, which feels like a magical fairy hideout.  I want her to know the redwood parks of Humboldt like the back of her hand.  And I want her to smile, to breathe deeply when we drive out of Eureka, past Arcata, toward McKinleyville, grandma's house, smile like I do.  I look out the window and see nothing but land for miles, open land, land meant for running, for lying on, for dreaming impossible, magical dreams.  I want her to see that, too.

The city gives us reality, dreams of drive, of achievement, of overcoming impossible odds.

And the country gives us magic, dreams of fairies, of getting lost in the woods and finding ourselves, of impossible imagination, of whimsy.

So, yea, I want her to be a city kid.  And I want her to be a country kid, too.

A little bit country.  A little bit rock and roll.  A little bit of R&B.

I Lost My Friend

She's not dead.

Thank goodness.

She's not in another country.

Thank goodness.

She's not even on the other side of this country.

Thank goodness.

But she's not on the other side of this tiny hill I live on anymore.  And I loved that.  I really loved that.  She was the first friend I had like that in so very many years.  We talked about everything.  We laughed over silly stuff.  She is nothing like me, but she is oh so much like me.

And it hurts.

I do not deal well with pain.  I bury it.  I dig it up.  I attack it with an axe.  I bury it again.  I crawl into the earth to lie with it.  I scream at it.  I turn my back on it.  Ignore it.

And then I write about it.  And it washes clean.

She's young.  A young mother working hard to raise a strong, independent, happy girl.  She was in a violent relationship that would have taken from her daughter, her two year old, everything she had envisioned for her, ripped her future away from her before it had a chance to sprout.

And I had no idea.  I laughed at her jokes, I talked with her baby, I watched our girls race toward each other each time they met again.  And I had no idea.

Until I got the call.  She was fleeing in the moment of a violent episode, racing for her life, packing her bags, arranging flights, meeting the cops at the door.  And I had no idea.

I was at work, ribbing one of my students for making the same mistake for the hundredth time.  I was looking forward to leftover pasta on my lunch break.  I was thinking about the glass of wine I would have that night at home.  But that night at home I had refugees, hiding from rage, hiding from discovery, hiding from the hand that might stop their flight.

And she was so weary the next day, as the morning sun rose and the air came in through the windows; she was just weary.  She was sad about the death of something that could have been.  She was sad for her daughter losing a father.  She was sad to leave her home.

But she was also looking forward.  Eyes up, shoulders back, firm set mouth.  She was not looking back, not looking behind her.

And how selfish of me, that in quiet moments that morning before she left I felt sad for myself, sad for my daughter, sad for our loss of such beautiful close friendships.

Ten years her senior I can say I am proud.  Proud she could be so strong in such an impossible situation.  Proud she could walk away with her baby in her arms not knowing what the future held but knowing that it had to be better than the past, than the present.  I am proud she is my friend.  And so many months later I can say I am proud of how far she's come in such a short time.  A new job.  A new place she can turn into a home.  Her little village around her.  I am proud to call her friend.

But yes, I am still sad for myself.

Washed clean now.  But still sad.