April 13, 2007

Talking Myself Out of Feeling Stuck

My old apartment took up the front half of the second floor of a one-hundred-year-old house that had been divided into four apartments. It had windows on three sides, plenty of natural light, and opening to the west was a huge leaded-, beveled-glass window (original to the building, since replaced). The only thing between me and my tiny sliver of the Golden Gate Bridge was the blooming magnolia tree that framed the edges of my sun porch. The one drawback: if I wanted to see the sun rise, I'd have to sit on the refrigerator with my feet in the kitchen sink and my face smashed against the windowpane. Not that I ever did that. Wake up early enough to see the sun rise, I mean.

Our current apartment takes up the entire bottom floor of a seventyish-year-old house that has been divided into two apartments. We have windows on every side, most of them knee-to-ceiling high. In the morning, the sun trumpets like a brass marching band through the curtainless breakfast nook. Sunrise, at last, and sometimes I'm even awake for it.

There are things about our apartment that are great. For starters, most of the people we know in the Bay Area pay fifty percent more for half as much space. True, they don't have the Jets and Sharks rumbling on the sidewalk every weekend, but we all make sacrifices. I wish we had working heaters and a dishwasher, for instance, but I love that we have a back porch to grill on and built-in shelves for all the martini glasses and fezzes, and a designated "sports alcove" in which to hang the bikes out of the way. I also like that our upstairs neighbor doesn't complain about our spontaneous recitals (Simon accompanies my Mozart on the drums), but maybe if he did I wouldn't feel so bad complaining about his public domestic disputes.

I do like the high ceilings, though. And the kitchen storage and the breakfast nook and even the fireplace, although I wish it weren't stuck half open so the icy tongue of winter can slither down the chimney and lick our toes blue six months out of the year. The windows are really great, though--the size and placement and especially the profusion. Problem is we don't get the use out of them that we should; most days, all the blinds are closed and the curtains drawn, save for one set that remains half open so Eve can lust over her beloved nesting pigeons while the grown-ups are at work. We have windows, yes, but we don't have light; better to keep it dark and cave-like than invite inside a world that is sometimes just ugly but other times also a bit threatening. Six months out of the year we live in a frigid ice hut, but for the entire year we live cocooned in the semi-darkness of 40 watt bulbs, letting the windows frame the potential rather than the actual, which is a fancy way of saying that the scenes beyond the curtains and the blinds and the glass look a lot better in my head than they do in reality. I wouldn't say I'm a prisoner in my own home, but I will say I often feel crowded inside all that space.

Sometimes I image that I will pull back the red velvet drapes in the media room and find myself overlooking a fertile vegetable garden instead of seeing into the southerly neighbor's living room with all those porcelain figurines on dark wood shelves. Out the bay windows in the lounge, I'd prefer an orchard or an ocean or, hell, even just ten feet of grass instead of ten feet of concrete and drying laundry between us and the northerly neighbor's bedroom. Out the front, I'd replace the security gate and the apartment building full of brawlers with, I don't know, a stable of unicorns and pegasuses the color of fruit sherbets. And even if the view wasn't exactly magical, it'd be nice at least to open up the blinds once in a while and not feel like our music room is a window display for the Steal This Emporium.

My solace in all of this is the aforementioned breakfast nook--a wall full of (single-paned, leaky) windows that look out over, yes, the neighbors' drip-drying underwear and rabid pitbulls but also orange trees and lemon trees and persimmon trees and a makeshift miniature vineyard. We hung lanterns from the porch and rigged up a hammock too, and every once in a while, we catch the blazing sunrise while fixing pb&js for the day ahead. I didn't have any of that in my old place, in my old life. I gave up a lot of things when I moved, but by golly I gained a sunrise.

Sometimes experience doesn't help us learn what we DO what but what we DON'T want. (This can go for cars and jobs and boyfriends too.) My last apartment had high ceilings and big windows and quiet neighbors. Our current apartment has high ceilings and big windows and close, loud, semi-dangerous neighbors. I know better now what I do and don't want. I'd love to keep the ceiling and the windows and get some of my old neighbors back, but I'm also up for some changes. I'm ready for a dishwasher. I'm ready for central heating. I'm ready for a front lawn instead of a parking slab and a wrought-iron gate with spikes on top. I'm tired of the mariachi music and the rap music and the kung-fu fighting. I am completely over the drug dealers and the urchins who leave greasy handprints all over my car when they're not shooting pellet guns at beer cans nearby.

Our next place, when it comes, will be better in those ways. But I also know that there will, always, be sacrifices. We might lose our sports alcove to gain a second bathroom. We might lose our grilling porch in favor of a garage. A mortgage will be two or three times our rent, but at least we'll be investing instead of feeding the black hole. In the best case scenario, we'll live surrounded by so much beauty that we'll leave the blinds up and the curtains open all day long and I won't have to worry about street thugs when I come home late. Even then, though--even with the yard and the fruit trees and the invisible-unless-I-need-to-borrow-a-cup-of-sugar neighbors--I know there will be drawbacks; for starters, if we leave all the shades up, Simon will have to start wearing a bathrobe.

I think most of us hope that as we move through life we climb the ladder by trading up. Everything gets bigger--kitchens, bathrooms, paychecks--and better--careers, vacations, relationships. What I've learned, though, through living here and loving the people I love and have loved, is that sometimes it's not a ladder we're climbing, or even a track that we're travelling in one of two directions. It's more like a web. On it we can move every which way, forward and up, but also sideways and even down and back. We feel our way along, make choices and guesses, and hope for the best. We hope that once we've found that sunrise, we don't have to give it up again, but sometimes that's the price we must pay for a washer and dryer or central heating or a community instead of a 'hood. The important thing to remember is that it is a choice, and for all the things that are less than ideal, we shouldn't bemoan what we don't have but console ourselves with what we do. When the mariachi blasts, we turn up our music louder and no one complains; we might never be so lucky again. When the wind blows down the chimney and our fingers start to turn blue, we can make that into an excuse to snuggle into bed early; we might someday forget that luxury. When the pimps roll by on their shiny rims, we close the blinds and draw the curtains and dance around naked, sure that no one can see inside; one day we might not have such a convenient excuse. Things could certainly be worse. That's important to remember.

Posted by Leah at April 13, 2007 11:55 AM
Comments

So well said. I think your web analogy is going to stick with me.

Posted by: Ms. X at April 13, 2007 12:39 PM

Everything you write is so wonderful. Thanks.

Posted by: Janssen at April 13, 2007 01:28 PM

Great outlook, Leah! Happy Friday to you :)

Posted by: Angella at April 13, 2007 02:11 PM

"I'm tired of the mariachi music and the rap music and the kung-fu fighting." (i.e. I'm tired of the Latinos and the Blacks and the Asians.)

"Our next place, when it comes, will be better in those ways." Hooray-no brown people!

Posted by: e at April 13, 2007 02:33 PM

How is it that anonymous commenters always have NO IDEA?

I don't care what color your skin is--just turn the music DOWN.

Posted by: Leah at April 13, 2007 02:44 PM

This post could not have come at a more convenient time as I was thinking earlier about the things that I wish our house had... namely, a second bathroom (our last apt. had one), a more city-convenient location, and better windows (which it will once we can afford to put them in). As usual, you are right on with your words of wisdom.

Posted by: One Smart Cookie at April 13, 2007 02:52 PM

Leah,

Wow, e thinks you're racist, honey. I'm glad that e understands you so well. He or she is apparently intimately familiar with the inside of your head, and insightful enough to interpret your writing with such insightful accumen.

We had best inform Rev. Sharpton.

-Simon.

Posted by: simon at April 13, 2007 03:18 PM

As a matter of fact, Leah, it reminds me of my last house, remember? Remember the people across the street that blared Styx and Journey and Bob Seger all day, every day?

Wow, we could hear it the next street over. Damn white people!

-Simon.

Posted by: simon at April 13, 2007 03:21 PM

No fights. We're all grown-ups here. E's probably just fighting the good fight (from inside the DC court system) and doesn't know I'm on her side. Be cool, man.

Posted by: Leah at April 13, 2007 03:22 PM

Me? A grown-up? Bite your tongue.

Posted by: simon at April 13, 2007 03:48 PM

At least you know what you are living with... I live in the 'burbs and none of my neighbors ever reveal themselves. It's so, so, so... beige. Of course, we are the loud family and my immediate neighbors (on both sides) are as loud as we are (thank God) and we all get along fabulously. Maybe that's why we never see our other neighbors?
LOL
Your web analogy is perfect. Sometimes that sideways climb is just as sticky as the way up or down. I'm just happy to not be all spun up in it.
;)

Posted by: Natalie at April 13, 2007 05:40 PM

Me! I'm brown!

Hi!

Posted by: Lulu at April 13, 2007 05:50 PM

I'm brown too! Hoo boy! Remind me to turn down Get me Bodied and the Ludacris.

On a serious note, have I mentioned that I love your writing and your insight and the analogies?

Posted by: Heather B. at April 13, 2007 06:56 PM

That was a fantastic read. Thank you. It's so true that we always tend to look for those things that we don't have. This was a great reminder to appreciate what we do. Dancing naked sounds like fun.. hehe.

Posted by: Elizabeth at April 13, 2007 08:46 PM

Now you've made me want a herd of sherbet coloured unicorns in my own backyard :P Gorgeous writing Leah, only a post from you would have me contemplating licking a sugary unicorn just for a moment ;)

Posted by: Tan at April 13, 2007 11:05 PM

I envy you your windows. My apartment is one of the biggest I've ever lived in, and certainly one of the largest, but it only has windows on one side, and only a couple of them at that. I'm going to have to move if I want to survive through another winter with seasonal affective disorder.

A Thousand Paper Cranes

Posted by: Bianca at April 14, 2007 06:25 AM

that was one of the best, most think-about-as-I-go-to-bed posts that I've read in a long time.

I've traded sushi, the best food on the planet, and a vibrant city life for a house in a 1940s suburb where the local neds (the biggest issue I have with them is their fashion sense - but then I guess they did miss the 80s the first time around) hang out at the local convienence store each evening. But I've a garden with a bbq, my bathroom is no longer pink, and we're a 10 minute walk from an amazing park (and pub). I've definitely traded across, and it suits us now. I'm glad that we've gotten both choices though!

Posted by: trish at April 14, 2007 12:42 PM

"We feel our way along, make choices and guesses, and hope for the best. We hope that once we've found that sunrise, we don't have to give it up again, but sometimes that's the price we must pay for a washer and dryer or central heating or a community instead of a 'hood."

I feel like this statement--as well as the tone and implications of the rest of the post--doesn't acknowledge those who aren't living somewhere less than ideal due to a "choice" or a sacrifice for such things as washer/dryers and large windows but because that is simply the only place they can live.

It's easy to look on the bright side when it really is a choice, and a temporary one at that. When you do see a mortgage, a garage, and quiet in your future. When you are facing a lifetime of decrepit housing, unsafe neighborhoods, noise, crime, and the like, things look a little different.

Just wanted to offer a different point of view. Hopefully I didn't misread your post. Not knowing anything about your situation other than what I read here, there is of course much more to what you're saying, I'm sure, than what I take away from it as a stranger who doesn't know you or your circumstance. Either way, thanks for sharing your thoughts and being open to a variety of responses.

Posted by: M at April 14, 2007 03:38 PM

There are always little trade-offs, but that's because there is no perfect place on earth to live. By the beach? Hurricanes and sunburn! Big city? Crime, traffic and no personal space! Suburbs? Long commute and having to mow the lawn!

Home's where your heart is, whether the curtains are drawn or not. And here's to hoping you eventually find a home that's got room to grill and a safe place for your car. Central heat, a dishwasher and room to, in case, add more family members when appropriate.

Posted by: Texas T-bone at April 14, 2007 08:09 PM

M--Yes, excellent points, and well made. Those issues could make up a completely separate post, if not a whole series. I'm just using this space to talk about myself and my experience and my future. It's never been my intention to make this a site where I ponder and dissect larger social issues. Not that I don't think about them or experience them every day; this just isn't the place for it. There are entirely too many pictures of my cat on here for that, don't you think? :)

But thanks for sharing your thoughtful and respectful p.o.v. Living where and how I live, I could never overlook the fact that not everyone has the same opportunities or choices; I'm incredibly fortunate, and it would be hard to forget that. Still, I'm ready for a damn dishwasher, and I know that doesn't make me a bad person. (Not that you were saying I was, but others might disagree...)

Posted by: Leah at April 14, 2007 11:30 PM

That was so beautiful. Thankyou. You've inspired a post in me.

Posted by: Stephanie at April 15, 2007 11:32 AM

It looks like I'm not the only one that thinks about these things. I walk dogs for extra money and exercise, and sometimes as I walk around beautiful homes and mansions, I start thinking (too much). I wonder what it is that makes me different from the people who live in those huge homes. Why wasn't I able to get these things by birth, marriage, or a powerful job? Are these people somehow better?

I am beginning to realize that I have made certain choices, for a reason, that have brought me to where I am. What I have, I have earned and gotten on my own. That counts for something.

I agree that there are sacrifices that are often made. Maybe if I worked long hours at a job that I didn't like, I could afford a better house, but then I wouldn't have any time left to really enjoy the house. I like having free time. In the end, I think that it is experiences rather than material things that make life worthwhile.

Posted by: Green Eyes at April 16, 2007 08:57 AM

Green Eyes--Yes to all of that. But for me, it's not even about a big, nice house. My immediate goal is an okay house in a non-scary neighborhood. We had to call the police at 2 a.m. over the weekend because of a brawl, and this morning we found a shotgun shell in the street about twenty feet from Simon's car. A mansion would be great, but I'll take basic personal safety for starters. Sadly, in this area, we need $500,000 to have that. Or else we move elsewhere.

Posted by: Leah at April 16, 2007 10:19 AM

Better houses don't make better people. They just mean they've got a fancy wrapper for all their crap.

Posted by: Texas T-bone at April 16, 2007 02:09 PM