When You Know, You Know

This morning, it began with the bath mat. I've looked at it with disdain for at least a year, shortly after I hastily threw it into my cart at Walmart. I shop one of two ways: pragmatically or intuitively; one ends in remorse and the other keeps on giving. This rug, in the matter of a day, it goes from freshly vacuumed fluff to rode hard and put up wet. If you don't know what the latter means, it's something you'd hear growing up in West Virginia. It's similar to when Grandmas look at babies who aren't their kin and say Oh, bless their little heart. Translation: It's ugly. If you can't get a new one, well, hopefully it'll grow on you. It's a good thing rugs aren't a lifetime commitment.

As I began my contemplative scroll through Google for a bath mat that speaks my language — English, with a little bit of dreamer's pidgin — I came across this image and my eyes turned into two giant, throbbing cartoon hearts. It's a modern-day 1960s tropical lavatory dream that not even my two little boys' relentless reckless urine streams could shake me from. Unfortunately, this dream will be deferred since, on the edge of turning 46 years old, I'm still a renter. It's one of those things edgy people do — there's a long list. 

For many years, owning a home was low on that list, which was high on things like Become a Working Writer and Do What Feels Good. When motherhood knocked everything askew, my priorities became an act of reconstruction. Eventually that working writer thing moved up the ranks and worked out, despite all the reasons it shouldn't have. I had faith. When you know what's right, you just know. 

As I write, I notice new plump cherry tomatoes on the vine in the pot beside me on my deck, the view from which is the consolation prize of throwing my hard-earned money into the rental ether each month. From my perch at the top of my hill-bound neighborhood, I see pine trees, deer, squirrels, groundhogs, and the river far below, downtown. This place and I found each other because I'd been speaking the language of dreamers: I'd told myself and whoever else would listen that I needed to be in a single-story home. It would feel like me, and things that feel like me can only be right. 

Before this place, the kids and I lived in an older two-story house owned by a guy who was once in a band named after a girl. That was 20+ years ago. He and I knew the same people back then, and I even went to his shows, but we didn't meet each other until decades later in the assembly line at church, putting together lunchboxes for low-income children. He said he might have a house to rent, and I — out of options due to my prior landlord reclaiming his house — jumped at the opportunity. I stayed the course even after discovering that the particular geometry of his house ran counter to my architectural sensibility. There's something restrictive, and constrictive, about a traditional two-story house. Of the many things I can say about what defines me, one is this: Don't Fence Me In. 

On a crunchy October afternoon, on a drive for no good reason I can recall, I came across a little brown cedar ranch. Moving again didn't make sense financially or logistically, but it made sense to me. So a month later, I was hauling boxes and marking the walls for frames. By nature of being an intuitive "purchase," this house comes with no buyer's remorse. Not even when the huge yard turned out to be useless due to a strange terrain issue. Not even when the basement that was supposed to be emptied of the landlord's belongings is still very pregnant with them. When something feels right, what's wrong with it doesn't matter. 

Aside from the occasional lawnmower and the bird who sings purrrty purtypurtypurty, it's usually quiet on this hill. On this holiday weekend, however, daylight hours do nothing to deter passionate patriots (who may or may not be drunk college kids). My nearly 13-year-old pit bull, Pvt. Joker, is inured to the intermittent explosions celebrating the freedom ordained by America and Bud Light. Loud sounds generally terrify him, but like his namesake protagonist in Full Metal Jacket, he chooses his battles wisely. I'm not as pragmatic as my old dog, but I have my own brand of wisdom laced with intuition. Today, it took me from future-bathroom bliss to this little piece of paradise on my deck. I'll savor this high until my Knowing reveals the next.