Good? Bad? Maybe.
Remember that not getting what you want is sometimes a wonderful stroke of luck.
The Dalai Lama
We lost it. The bid on the house. The turn of the century house in the perfect location. With the perfect piece of almost an acre of grassy flat land. At the bottom of a mountain. 1 mile inland from the water. Smack in the middle of a community, surrounded by organic farms. From the backyard you could see the Islands. And it came with His (music lab.guest space) and Her (writing lab.guest space) outbuildings. Fun. Funky. Chicken pen and rabbit hutch and fire pit kind of fun. Spectatcular sunsets and lovely bakery walking distance. The whole upstars: a child’s oasis with window seats and hidden cubbies. But it’s in the process of being someone elses home right now. I was already looking for the junked rocker to paint cherry bomb red place on the front porch and then sit on while drink a vodka and lime with fresh mint from the garden.
This didn’t happen because of a whirwind of ego and fear, and fear driven ego and negative speculation and very bad advice. This didn’t happen because of real estate game playing and niavity. This didn’t happen because of many things. And perhaps many things I can’t name or see guided this home to someone else. I don’t know much about much but I do know that I am pissed. Disappointed. And really, really sad. Living in this very temporary rental (the lease ends in 2 months and the house goes back on the market) is just that: temporary. I’d like the girls to find a home. A place to put up and easle and not give a fuck if the paint gets everywhere.
The beauty and the sustainability of this community take my breath away. The people intrigue me. And the color of the grass here is really just the most perfect green you could ever imagine. So much of my life I have been searching for this spot that I sit right now and type; the Pacific Northwest. It’s like that feeling when I first entered California, but better: the air is clean and I certainly don’t live in the car. The emotional struggle since I arrived here and it’s not because I don’t like it. I just want to ground myself and start life without thinking about another move into another house. I wanna sink those coiled roots into the dark moist wormy dirt of this earth, trust this journey even more by committing to a home, a place to hang a laundry line and build a wooden tower for the kids to climb up and check out the views. And then I found the little butter colored home at the bottom of Blanchard Mountain. And I worked my ass off to get our finances in place. And when it was all said and done, my partner felt one way and I felt another and the compromise on the bid was too low. The beginners mind was over-powered by the ‘I know everything’ mind. And both of us ‘knew everything’ and both of us know nothing.
My real estate agent called crying to tell us the rejected our bid. She is an intuitive and swore that this house was ours. She apologized up and down, listing a million things she should have done to prevent this ‘bad news’. This house was yours. This is just so sad.
And then I remembered this. It’s my mantra: Good? Bad? Whose to say, really? I mean, the house was officially below sea level and a perfect target for all my Tsunami dreams. So was it sad we lost the little Washington Starter Home that I could have lived in for the reast of my life? Maybe. But I’ll keep looking.
A wise farmer had worked his crops for many years. One day his horse ran away. Upon hearing this news, his neighbors came to visit him. "Such bad luck," they said sympathetically. "Maybe" the farmer replied. The next morning the horse returned, bringing with it three other wild horses. "How wonderful," the neighbors exclaimed. "Maybe," the farmer replied.
The following day, his son tried to ride one of the untamed horses and was thrown off the horse and broke his leg. The neighbors again came to offer their sympathy on this misfortune. "Maybe" answered the farmer. The day after, military officials came to the village to draft young men into the army. Seeing that the farmer’s son’s leg was broken, they passed him by. The neighbors congratulated the farmer on how well things had turned out. "Maybe." said the wise farmer."
