What does the sun remove from us when we bare our shoulders to her?
Today, the sun excavated a house-shaped hole in my longing heart. I wandered past 824 S Ridgeley and the old brown shake siding nearly decimated me.
Later, while I was in the process of becoming a human puddle on my couch, I discovered it had sold last in 1989 for $368,000. Do the owners know how their life in that house extends beyond my life in this world? Do they know how much I might stretch, if I could, to be big enough for all three of those bedrooms? If by some awkward fold in time, it was 1989 now…I still couldn’t afford it. My homeowning dreams might come true only if I am kind to every old rich widow I meet. So be it.
Other things the sun has historically taken from me: my self confidence, plans to video call my people, the intention to do laundry. The sun sometimes takes a frozen pizza out of our freezer, like she will tonight.
The cure, always, is a nap, some water, a sprinkling of salt, and two sips of wheat beer. Instead, I wrongly decide that there is restoration in long talks about the direction of my life, and meaningless scrolls through homes for sale in the mountains. The prices are closer to 1989 up there. I’d be closer to the sun up there. If I wasn’t covered by behemoth pine trees, what would a day in the sun do to me there? It might carve out the missing shape of a beach, or the San Bernardino Valley, or the Hollywood Hills, or the shape of our Miracle Mile apartment with its galley kitchen and unhinged screen door.
No, it’s probably best to let the sun take what she wants right now, to sip on hoppy beers as an antidote, to cancel plans if she asks me to. To offer my skin as a reminder of tender vulnerability.
And to layer on sunscreen like boundaries.
Next Steps: Drink a glass of water, put some sunscreen on your face, and remind yourself that this sweet little apartment won’t be yours forever.
Like a baby who got too much sun ☀️