A Kind Of Death

postcard from central california

Life, lately, feels like waiting.
Waiting to figure out where I’ll land, what I’ll do, who I’ll do it with, how I’ll get there, and who I’m meant to be.

But since I’ve been here, the anxiety of waiting has softened.

I’m writing from a friend’s cabin porch tucked into the rolling slopes of Atascadero, a small town hidden behind San Luis Obispo and Morro Bay.

This morning, I hiked one of the many mountains, its trails carved by hand — one man’s hands, to be exact. He’s an older gentleman who lives nearby, and he’s shaped the land with an excavator so he and his neighbors can enjoy it.

I pass by him on his mountain bike, with his golden lab, Bingo, trotting alongside.
Bingo is a fetch-playing fiend. She won’t leave you alone once the game begins. She prances back and forth on her front and hind legs like a seesaw. To her, fetch is everything.

Time stretches out on these hills.

I arrived with traces of melancholy. Nick Drake’s “Place to Be” could be this place and time’s soundtrack — not because I’m sad, but because I’ve stopped needing to be happy all the time. Each day unfolds with unspoken simplicity. From the moment I wake to the second I lay my head down on the pillow, everything quietly makes sense. My resting heart rate has settled into a lull.

Each morning, I start my day hiking with a pack of dogs, and in the afternoons, I run. By day’s end, my body is worn out but buzzing with relaxation. I feel strong again.

In Morro Bay, I run along a beach that always seems to be at low tide. I send photos of the giant rock there to loved ones — its hulking presence breaking through the marine layer, green flecks glittering when the sun touches its face.

No matter how far I run, it never seems closer or farther away — it stays constant.

Wet tar cements to my ankles, sinking into my shoes. What happens when the pipers and cranes ingest it? I can only hope they’ve learned to avoid the sticky black orbs that wash ashore better than I have.

A small galaxy has formed beneath one of my big toenails — blood trapped and swirling, lifting the nail like a tide. It threatens to fall off every time I run. It’s healed, worsened, and healed again since the marathon two months ago. Will I lose it, or will it hang on?

This uncomplicated routine — hiking, writing, reading, running — settles me into my bones.

Still, most days, I have a childlike impulse to call my mother, just to hear her voice. We play phone tag, and the days go on. She must be busy — I wonder if I bother her with this constant need, this yearning to be close. But how else do we learn to be close, if not from our mothers? Aren’t we always needing our mothers?

The world feels off, strange in a way that only seems to be deepening. I’ve been trying to find my way back to something I lost, something quieter and more honest.

That’s one reason I finally let go of Instagram. For too long, playing the game of social media numbed me: everyone was performing, selling, curating. Now, without those quick hits of dopamine, I’ve been paying more attention to what actually fills my days — and what doesn’t.

This makes me consider my happiness.

A few days ago, my friend and I listened to a podcast about the World Happiness Report. America didn’t make the top ranks, which didn’t surprise me. What surprised me was the outrage: “How could we not be number one?”

We’ve confused winning with joy. We’ve lost the point.

In the afternoon, my friend brings me freshly cut flowers from the wild, chaotic rose bush growing outside her bedroom window. That’s how everything grows here — outrageously, beautifully, without form or function.

And I’ve arrived here at the moment before pruning.
Before the cut.
Before the death and rebirth.

Everything right now is teeming with life.

I’m falling in love with her dogs; she has three.

Two I thought might eat my dog, Hubbell, but instead they cover her in slobbery kisses. They follow her around and kiss her every time she moves, makes a noise, breathes.

How overwhelmed my dog seems by their affection — but how lovely it is to be loved like that: immediately, and without condition.

I dream at night of kissing someone faceless. I wake up free.

Free to want.
Free to love again —
Not worried about the when or how.

Instead, I drink coffee in bed and read Hervé Guibert:
“I detach myself at once from these temptations, become serene, the certainty of this adventure.”

The sun’s already warming the room, even before I’ve lifted the shades. I open the door to a field — tall grass, squirrel-ridden trees. Another lovely day ahead.

Later, I sit beside one of the big dogs. I’m holding onto nothing — no book, no phone, no drink.

My hands feel empty. I consider grabbing a book or my journal and a pen, but I resist the impulse to do anything.

So I stay quiet and still, opening myself up to the clarity of a dog’s perspective. Together, we watch the vultures circling overhead, their eyes spotting the dead in ways we’re not meant to.

I’ve felt far from everything lately — from everyone. I was waiting for things to change, for me to change.

But maybe this isn’t such a terrible place to be. Maybe the waiting was the change — what I needed to become.

This can be the place I let go — untether, and begin again.