When life imitates art.

A view from above.

By this point, you would think that I would be used to the coincidences that happen when I’m drafting a book. Or at least not continue to be surprised when life imitates art.

For example, Garden of Shadows explored the ramifications of people forced from their homes by gentrification. While I was editing that book, I was hired as a writer for “A Home in Paradise”. A documentary that addresses that same issue as it is playing out in our county.

I’ve been drafting away on book three, following the different strands of story as they unfurl. As I’ve mentioned before I’m a mix of panster and plotter. Mostly panster. A couple weeks ago I reached which will probably be the halfway point of this book (50,000 words). It was time to take break, pull out my plotting tools, and make sure that the story structure was proceeding to my loose mental outline.

And then, suddenly, my life shifted.

While we’ve lived in Salida, we’ve been renters. Our housing market is very expensive, and we still had our place in Alaska. We’ve known for some months that we would be finalizing the sale of our Alaska cabin at the end of May. Dave was traveling for his Africa workshops until early in the month. We thought we would have a couple of weeks to relax, then travel to Fairbanks to finish preparing the cabin, before settling in for our summer schedule.

Instead, it appears we will also be moving out of our house in Salida. It was entirely unexpected and has thrown us into a frenzy of activity to secure housing. Amongst all the worry, I’ve been thinking about the idea of home. About the places that I’ve lived. Most have been rented, one was owned, some locations more permanent than others.

And then I sat down to stare at the blinking cursor on my screen and thought, “wait, didn’t I write something in this book about home?” And there it was, several chapters back from my stopping point, an exchange between Linnea and Sello (a new character).

“My family lives in the Karoo, but it doesn’t feel like home. Kenilworth will do for now. The grounds feel like home. I know every bit of these gardens. I’ve worked the soil and tended the plants. I guess that connection is what means home to me.”

I considered Sello’s description. By that measure, I’d had many homes. Kew, the Chelsea Physic Garden, Hugh’s garden, the Generalife. I believed that because those places belonged to someone else, they couldn’t also be mine, but maybe Sello was right. It was in our intention. Our connection with that place. Our care and nourishment.

(This is an unedited excerpt. Be kind.)

At every home I’ve lived in, I have tended the land. Be it apartment balcony, tiny drought tolerant yard, or acres of Alaska spruce forest. I’m facing the difficult experience of releasing the Alaska lands that continue to appear in my dreams. A place that witnessed tears of frustration and happiness. Whose trails I walked with two dogs gone too soon. The creek that I regularly negotiated with to not swallow our driveway (moderate success). Log walls that sheltered Dave and I through major shifts as individuals and a couple. It’s going to be hard to say goodbye.

And then I get to fly back to Colorado and leave another home. To soothe the hurt, I keep thinking about what I wrote. Home is the place we tend. That we nourish. And that doesn’t mean that it is only a physical space. For many people in this world, owning a place of their own, will never be a possibility. Refugees cast from their homelands do not have a choice. But if it is our actions, our intentions, our care, that allow us to cultivate a sense of home, maybe that is enough.

Cottongrass on Goat Hill.