Now it is July. I’m still watching the cormorant nest I discovered six weeks ago. It sits in a high branch in a eucalyptus tree. The nest is made from eucalyptus leaves, fresh, whole, perfect.
It’s a large nest. From where I stand on a flat area before the landscape slopes down into ragged ivy and prolific poison oak, I have an easy view of the nest. Multiple times each day I watch.
The first time I saw the chicks fed they were so small only their wide-open bills poked out from the top of the nest. Bigger now, they perch their lean black bodies forward sunning themselves. I can see the crook in their small necks reach out to feed from the parent birds.
Walking along the ocean shoreline I always see cormorants. On the water they sit low, with their head and bill tilted slightly upward. In flocks they fly in irregularly shaped line, necks slightly bent, bellies hanging low, their wingbeat slow, leaden. Both mother and father cormorants care for and fee their young. I wonder which of these birds are the ones who have made their nest in the eucalyptus tree beside my home.
I’m slow at feeling at home, getting everything situated and finding my rhythm in my new living space and I’m fast at feeling at home in my new neighborhood. After I visit the lagoon, every day I explore new paths to walk. Usually, I walk along the shoreline on the beach. Other days I walk the neighborhood streets and I’m in tune with the tides.
Now that I’ve got the lay of the land my attention is focused on my home. We are fully moved in, unpacked, cook almost all of our meals in our new kitchen, but my home is still lacking the small yet important details. I’m listening to what this house has to tell me. Slowly I’m adding artwork. Yesterday I bought a large sea green shallow bowl to hold my long-loved, carefully gathered over years, collection of small stones. I love my new bedroom facing the lagoon and we have a solid sense of knowing this move is right for us in every way. Yet it’s not easy moving from a 1,600 square foot house and into an 790 square foot condo. We have let go of furniture, clothes, books, and plenty of other stuff, including almost everything that was once housed in our garage in order to fit what we love or need in our cupboards, closets and to give ourselves more floor space and room to breathe.
It turns out that I’m not as minimal as I once thought I was. For me letting go of books was hardest and now I’m building a Kindle library and discovering that new beach towels can double for guest bath towels, and which other house-hold items can serve more than one purpose and are most useful to me. Now, I’m having the opportunity to delve deeper into what it means to live with less and be moderately minimal. More on this topic later after I’ve had time to grow into my new lifestyle.
I love everything about my new home, neighborhood and still I am slow to settle in. I don’t have any roots. I don’t have a history here, not yet. I love this free feeling of beginning anew, anchored only in the present. But I don’t have as much free time as I would like, to be silent, to observe, to watch, to explore, to dream. Instead, I’m reaching to catch up, meeting work demands and family responsibilities. My intuition to go slow tells me I’m beginning to put down roots. The culture here is slow-paced and laid back and I’ve lost the urge to rush or hurry.
What is the same? And what is different? I’m still on the Central California Coast. Before I lived 100 miles north of Los Angeles. Now I’m 80 miles south of San Francisco. Before I was 2 miles from the ocean in arid canyon area. Now I’m half a mile from the ocean, an easy walk, and the air is damp, fog softened. Before my home was surrounded by eucalyptus trees and Live Oak giving home to red-tailed and red-shouldered hawk, crow, owl, and my yard backed up to a dry creek bed. My new small home also backs up to a grove of eucalyptus and Live Oak, with red-tailed and red-shouldered hawk, crow, owl and instead of a dry creek bed, now there is a lagoon with cormorants.
Before I had a washing machine and dryer and now, I’m sharing a laundry room with others in my condo neighborhood. Before I lived for four decades in the same community and now, I’m beginning anew. Now I am surrounded by live water, the ocean, the lagoon and the mountains are nearby. A twenty-minute drive takes me deep into redwoods. A twenty-minute drive also brings me to my family and grandchildren.
Most days I do not drive anywhere. Whenever possible I walk. When I’m not walking, I’m watching the trees, listening, thankful for the good energy feeling this new home offers up.
I miss my friends and neighbors that filled my life before, but I’m not lonely. Right now, I’m like the cormorants outside my window, focusing on nesting, and I’m leaning forward in an attitude of gentle waiting for this new landscape to teach me who I am.
