Comming Full Circle

Another set of rains are coming day after tomorrow. I made some preparations: gathering dry twigs from our yard to start the fires that keep me cozy, pulling the lawn chairs under the eaves, and making the dog a place to sleep inside the covered garage. I am so anxious for the coming rains, because they mark the start of spring here in the canyon. Everything is green now, or buzzing, humming, singing. The Santa Ynez River is flowing strong and fast and deep, and the Bush Poppies and Lupine are already showing their lovely colored faces. To maximize my time between the rains I shove the household chores aside and hike. I stretch my lazy legs out like the finches’ stretch their wings and feel the wind propelling me into all the newness.


The newness is the evidence I see that says the wind is shifting. I hear the whispers in the Sycamore leaves when I sit by the river,saying, “believe, believe,”. I have searched five months to find a job I’d like and nothing yet has surfaced. And yet, there are possibilities this week that peek like naughty children out at me. November pitted me against uneasiness, with threats of changing rental policies. Our housing could be ending in eight weeks. And yet, we have stumbled into the chance to BUY—not rent—since January’s arrival. Though I scarce can hold the hope it takes to see it—I see the insecurity we’re in as a platform fit for launching off into more wondrous freedom.


This second chance to watch the winter storms bring spring into our hearts reminds me I am blessed beyond belief. I know I must move soon--the fates have changed and others hold priority to rent here. To move my life from Paradise is painful; though I do not know the date I’ll leave, I’ve already started grieving. To dream about a future place that I could own is wonderful, but also bittersweet.


A wry smile stretches across my cheeks as I say this—just two short years ago I was chomping at the bit to leave a house behind and spend the summer traveling with tent stakes. I was desperate beyond words for the chance to be untied from the mundane tasks of daily life; I bucked against the thought of “normal” living.


I was restless and unsettled in myself; lost in all my longing. Now I’m half-found out. All the time spent watching finches fly and oak trees soak in morning light has led me to the garden of my soul, and I can’t wait to see what will be blooming there this spring if I keep listening.


I plan to keep on listening. This is my primary dream right now: to do the “boring” work of letting wind and sun and longtime friendships move me into trust so God can heal me from the things that made me lost in want and longing. I am so full of compost heaps and seeds; so ripe for blooming.

The river that was dry is swirling fast and deep and lovely. From the yard I’ve claimed as mine for almost 16 months, I hear its rushing sound of life. I feel it moving me just like a winter tree that bobs and shifts with each new surge of rain. Its waiting for the threat of new uprooting. In the waiting it is praying toward the possibility that it could land on richer soil... just around the bend where deeper pools stay moist through summer drought and giant oaks make gorgeous shade to shelter in. Perhaps what seems like tragedy is really serendipitous—it pushes us to change a circumstance that cannot give us all the soil we need to stabilize our bigger dreams and taller hopes.

I am a little tree with big intentions. I will let myself be moved in this momentum. I will not resist the chance to be uprooted by the one who sends the rains. My hope will hold me steady now, with ears awake to hear the Sycamore trees. "Believe," they say, "believe!"


I end with this prediction: my time spent living just off Paradise is ending. Yet I write with confidence of this: my relationship with Paradise is just beginning.