I had a Super Bowl party last night. This house is a disaster. Dishes are strewn around and there is the faint odor of cigarettes in the closed garage. Empty soda and beer cans are lined up on the kitchen counter. Remnants of a once whole tortilla chip are ground into the carpet. I’m stressed out but an unlikely acceptance overcomes me. Usually, I can’t concentrate with such a catastrophe surrounding me, but I have an assignment due for a college class. With a two year old boy, no sitter and limited time - I summon the energy to get started on it.
I plop down at my computer with my hot cup of coffee in my hand, staring out the window of my house. It’s a modest house, but it rests in an almost flamboyant spot and I call it home. I scored this geographical prize a few months ago. It was pure luck and it's cheap. I am content here. Did I say I’m content here? Yes, I can honestly say I’m just fine here.
I get to work and begin to type, but I'm distracted as a hummingbird lands on the feeder I’ve placed outside my window. She visits often. Her body ruffles with the chill in the air. She seems frenzied, yet curiously calm on her perch. A family of Quail waddles along the hillside looking for some food. A cottontail bunny playfully hops across the yard. Cows dot the hillside and the sizable mountains behind them vanish at the top of my windows. It’s unpleasantly cold and dark, but the storm clouds have fragmented long enough to reveal the striking rolling green hills that are in my view. Cool, bluish-grey shadows reveal intense emerald patches of grass that resemble a manicured golf course. The invented golf greens are broken up with large grey rocks and a crisp cerulean blue sky that I had painted from imagination years ago. Countless snarled oak trees and mossy boulders are scattered across the hills. I think of how permanent they are. They have no option of getting up and leaving. Everlasting and wise, they seem pleased right where they are.
A crackling fire is burning in my fireplace and my two year old son stares into the television with those annoying TV characters, the Teletubbies, giggling in the background. The noise is distracting, yet while entertaining my son it offers me a bit of time to do my “thing” with school. As I gaze out the window, I’m content and peaceful. I don’t itch to get out of this place. I love it here. This is a change for me because I’ve spent most of my adult life wanting to get out of the geographical prison I was born into.
Growing up in a small town wasn’t desirable to a girl who wanted to be a rock star and an artist. The yearning to break free has led me to some interesting places. My first break out was in my teens. I moved to Hollywood, then after a summer, moved back home. The San Francisco Bay area was home for awhile, and then I hung out with Buddhist monks in a monastery in Scotland. The culture and the old traditions of the Deep South were intoxicating too, but so was I, most of the time. It was time to go home again. I escaped to the glamorous Palm Springs. As I did many other times, I retreated into my cell. This time, I brought a visitor. As I keep typing, I look up at my beautiful and precocious son, Jack. His triumphant entry into the world has slowed my hurried approach to life. Yet, he keeps me at a speedy pace. So here I am, back again. Although, this time, it no longer feels like a sentence.
I get up to clear some cans off the counter while my son is singing along to the lyrics “I love you, you love me…” with Barney. This tune would make me nauseous at any other time in my life, but watching my two year old attempt to sing anything brings a big smile to my face. I try to refocus. I sit down and begin typing again, trying to put words to what I’m feeling and experiencing. It’s difficult to concentrate with this little guy at my feet.
It’s time to put another log on the fire. It’s time to put another load in the dishwasher. I get up for the hundredth time to check on my son who has now retreated to his room to play. He’s fine, so I sit down again at the kitchen table to get this assignment done. It doesn’t take long before Jack has wandered out of his room and is again staring at the TV. He’s hungry. I make him lunch. He seems pleased. I pour another cup of coffee and begin typing again.
As I struggle to illustrate the final points on my paper, I can’t help but look up from my computer and out at the rolling hills again. The rain clouds are returning. The overcast sky turns the colors of the landscape into a deeper and richer palette. The weather is constantly shifting, suggestive of our life on this planet. Gazing deep into the landscape, I sense a profound knowledge that I am going places. With the effort and determination of returning to school, I’m traveling in my mind. My soul knows that I’m moving towards something different - something I think I like, yet the geography is the same.
As I eagerly type the last sentence, the harried hummingbird returns to the bare-limbed tree outside. I watch her dance around. This creature is free to go wherever she wants, yet she remains here - day after day. I think she loves it here. She’s content - reminiscent of the oak trees, the mossy boulders and regardless of the cloudy days.
Contributor’s Note: Kristi Goss is a forty-one year old student returning to college to achieve a bachelor’s degree. She writes, paints, plays guitar and (at his frequent request) plays "pirate" with her two year old son, Jack.
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