Dreams

My dream--the one that returns time and time again--is that someone comes to me and tells me I have to go. I have ten minutes to pack, and a tiny suitcase. In that time I must decide what I will leave behind, and what I will take with me for the rest of my life.

The suitcase is the size of a carry-on, sometimes a large rolling suitcase, and in that I have to fit everything. My favorite clothes, my art, pictures of my family, my adventures, my life, practical things--hairbrushes, pans, a bathing suit, clothes for cold weather. It all has to fit, and I know it won't, and so I am packing, and each decision is so difficult I cannot move forward.

It is, in part, the legacy of being a Navy brat. I was always moving. Everything physical went with us, but a lot was always left behind. And, the truth was, I had no control over what. I didn't even know most of the time.

My favorite therapist tried to help me by telling me I could have trunk after trunk for my things. I no longer had to fit in a suitcase--especially now that I had a family. The scene was an Indian train, and the trunks were huge colonialist things. Impossible to move. I tried to visualize--but in my dreams there was always not only the fear and pain of moving, I also knew I had to move fast and travel light. Which I did for many many years. Well into my Thirties.

Even when I am awake I play this game a lot. I wander around my house and wonder what I would take with me if I had to flee my house, my city, my life--with my family. They get to go. And truly, they are the only thing that matters of all of this.

And now, as the economy teeters, and everything is uncertain, there are days we know we may have to sell our house. Sometimes I am OK with that. We are healthy. We have each other. We will not starve. A new house could bring a new adventure. You have to embrace change, and see what it brings, not cling blindly to the old. I believe all these things.

But somewhere deep deep inside me, I find it profoundly unsettling. Probably not as unsettling as people who have never moved, never started over, never left. I have done that all a million times. Perhaps I am best at that. Staying still is hard for me. But slowly this house has won me over. It has burrowed into my heart. I love the light, and the big old trees. I love the wavy 1920s glass that casts ripply shadows on our wall, like water. I love the smells of our garden, and the secret terraces, and the giant leaves around my outside dining room. I love that it floats above the city like a treehouse. I love the huge Hearst Castle Fireplace, our bright blue nook in the kitchen, and our giant pink designer lamp. I love the tiled floor that makes you dizzy, and the ghosts of old silent film stars you can feel wandering around, looking for a good party. I love that this house, and this neighborhood, with its fruit trees, its crumbling staircases, and its memories of better times, reminds me of my childhood in Naples--a gritty, crumbling city that still, to me, is one of the most beautiful places on earth.

I love our memories here. I never got to have that as a child. A place that was mine, that I could always go back to.

So, as we face departure, or at least the possibility of it, I feel myself stirred deep deep down. Is it childhood fears? Childhood longings? Tomorrow, when the rain clears and the sun comes out perhaps I will feel hope. I know so many people are facing this right now. But this truly is a magical house. I don't want to lose it.