Our next place almost certainly won’t have an impossibly starry sky
and an ocean view
Out like a lion
It’s March 31. The manic season we call spring here in New Brunswick has arrived, as snow, sleet, and rain pummel my office window overlooking the unsettled Atlantic. Out like a lion, indeed.
It’s not a storm, but it’s an announced weather event nonetheless, which means I need to know its scope and extent so I can prepare accordingly.
And by “prepare,” I mean, will I have to get the snow blower out yet again? Should we expect a power failure? How cold will it get and for how long? Do we have enough wood and fuel to last us a few days, if needed? Following the January 2017 ice storm, which brought down power poles like matchsticks and left our community without power for eight days, we are acutely aware that we must prepare for the worst.
And much of that preparation requires physical capability, which I still have now at 66, but which could disappear suddenly as a result of illness or accident, as I was reminded when I slipped on some ice in our driveway just over a month ago and landed hard on my shoulder. It still hasn’t healed.
Alternatively, that physical capability could disappear more gradually as I continue to age. That’s simply inevitable.
Living the dream right where we are
Where I live, I get to look out at the ocean as I write, to dwell in a community as warm and welcoming as I could ever hope for, and to live part of my life in a second, and often even a third, language, which is something I have always wanted to do. We live far enough from major centres to see the stars but close enough to go into the city when needed. It’s an absolute sweet spot on so many levels.
Needless to say, I don’t relish the thought of leaving here any time soon.
Now, suppose I’m fortunate enough to live an expected lifespan for someone my age (the relevant life expectancy table says I’m going to cash it in at around 83). In that case, there’s a strong possibility I won’t be able to continue living this particular dream at some point before then.
We have about two-thirds of an acre, which is not a particularly large lot, but it still requires physical effort to maintain. Then there’s that slush (or whatever the hell I’ll find there when I go outside later today) on the driveway and the much more significant amounts of snow and slush expected in the winters to come.
There’s also the splitting, stacking, and carrying of wood for our wood stove (which Michele would like to pretend doesn’t exist), maintaining the yard, and doing whatever else is necessary to keep our property in good repair.
The second-last place we ever live?
I have no problem going outside and dealing with whatever each season brings us these days (and am very grateful for our neighbour, who will bring the tractor over the once or twice a year when the snow is just too high or too heavy to do by myself) – in fact, I enjoy all of it – but will I be able to continue to do that into my 80s, even if my health remains OK? Unlikely, it seems.
I can’t help but think that, if my wife and I both achieve normal lifespans, this will be, at best, the second-last place we’ll ever live. And the last place is very unlikely to have an ocean view, a sky full of stars, or the absolute awe of seeing the massive moon rise over the eastern ocean horizon.
Yes, we will almost certainly age out of our home here, one way or another. And we will miss it dearly, as it is such a vital part of who we are.
No point in worrying about it
But there’s no point in being sad or worrying about it. At the risk of sounding trite, we truly must appreciate the joy in every single day of our lives. It may be small things, like a glass of good whisky or the sleepy cat nestled in next to you (I’ll grudgingly grant that it could be a dog, too).
Or it may be the big things, like being married to the right person, being able to say you published a book (yay!), or the joy of spending time with good people, some of whom happen to be your kids. And especially the ability to continue doing the physical things we need to do to stay where we want to be for as long as possible.
Whatever the joy is, we need to be aware that where we are right now was once a dream and is, at this very moment, a dream for someone else. On this day that lies at the cusp of seasons (including life’s seasons for me), I plan to treasure it in every way.
Even when clearing the slush from the driveway.
